


fighting the wind

by Magali_Dragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Edwardian Period, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Secrets, First Time, Light Angst, Magic, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Smut in chapter 8, Young Love, but with adult things later, kind of like the book the secret garden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: After all she knows is lost forever, Daenerys travels to live with her recluse older brother Rhaegar and her elderly great-uncle Aemon in a dark, gloomy manor in the North.  While there she finds many secrets within its closed doors and behind its stone walls, including a place where magic might really exist.**Check our Chapter Five for the most beautiful art by amazing Dragon_and_Direwolf commissioned for this fic!****Rating change for Chapter 8**
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (past)
Comments: 434
Kudos: 768





	1. fighting the wind

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by the book 'The Secret Garden' except it deviates a lot from that story and will include some 'adult things' later on. It is slow burn and slow written, I am taking my time with this one because I really am excited about it. It is mostly going to be Dany POV and Jon does not appear until a couple chapters in, he's a bit of a mystery in this one. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy I think, or not, you know, whatever.

* * *

The coast of Westeros reminded her vaguely of Valyria, the same rocky and craggy shores, sharp drops to the roiling dark sea below. Except this was not Valyria. Valyria was a ruin now, she imagined, her eyes long dry of all the tears she could possibly wring from her tiny body. Valyria was beautiful, the seas were azure with white capped waves and clear skies. There were towers and spires that touched the sun and kissed the moon. It was her home. It was where she was born, where she grew up, where she ran through the streets and climbed up those towers, and where she first kissed a boy and learned about the world. It was the only place she knew.

But now it was nothing. The only home she knew was now scattered into tiny islands sinking to the sea, which still smoked from the lava pouring from their beloved, their worshipped Fourteen Flames. It was a ruin. It was destroyed. All because they dared to push the boundaries of the world’s knowledge. The gods had punished them, she thought, and somehow, she was caught in that punishment. There was nothing left of her family. All she had was her name. Well, her name and the only two members that were left, who had left long ago. She didn’t even know them. She was off to stay with them, a brother and uncle she had never met. Merely strangers, not family.

The North might have cliffs like Valyria but that was where similarities ended, she thought. It was dark and gloomy; the sky had been a permanent shade of slate gray since she went to the top of the deck as they passed the Fingers. She wondered if it was ash, carried from the winds from Valyria, but that was so far away. It was another world. It had rained and did not seem to stop, mist hitting her face at every turn. There was no warmth here. She hated it immediately.

It was cold, clammy even. She felt hot under her skin, and yet at the same time chilled. There were mountains in the distance but where Valyria had been brown and lush , the volcanoes lightly smoking, these were mountains were angry and stabbed at the sky with jagged peaks. They were coated in rocks and capped with snow. They were crying rivers of ice.

She hugged the white cloak tighter around her. It might as well have been nothing. None of her wardrobe would suit for this land. She had taken what she could, essentially the clothes on her back as her mother sold everything, they had to get her on the last ship to leave the port. The last thing she had seen was her mother’s pale beautiful face, tears streaming as she blew her kisses and called that she would see her soon.

It was a lie, designed to make her think they would follow behind but even the Targaryens were not that wealthy. They had been conquerors once upon a time ago. With dragons even, but the magnificent beasts of her history had long died out. Her mother always thought she was still a child, but she knew better.

Valyria was gone, they said. She had made it to Pentos. Her brother Viserys had died of a sleeping sickness there. She sold her mother’s tiara for money to continue passage when the witch who claimed to be able to heal Vis had taken the money that had been destined for her passage onward to White Harbor. She had left Vis to the flames, where she also burned the witch, in the desert beyond Pentos. It was like she was losing a piece of herself with each step of her journey.

The girl who left Valyria was now an angry young woman, who had lost everything, and she was barely twenty. She glanced to the captain who approached her. He nodded his head, still in awe of her. She smirked; not many Westerosi had ever seen a Valyrian. They had silver hair and purple eyes of varying shades, if they were lucky. Her hair sometimes glinted gold and her eyes were the color of shiny amethysts. To the Westerosi they were living embodiments of evil or gods themselves, depending on your persuasion.

“Your Grace, we are docking soon. Your trunk will be delivered to your driver when we make port.”

“Thank you.” Her Common Tongue was only slightly accented, as Valyrian was her mother tongue. They called her ‘Your Grace’ like she was some sort of queen, but she’d learned it was because of her family’s titles in Valyria. It was a Westerosi thing. She returned her attention to the shore. White Harbor looked filthy, a sprawling city pumping black smoke from the hundreds of chimneys and men and women shouting from the endless docks, filled with ships that had colorful sails and flags from all over.

She tried to pinpoint some of them. The Kraken was the Greyjoys, raiders and reavers from the Iron Islands on the far west of the continent. She saw wolves, those were the Starks, the ruling family of the North. The North, where she was now consigned to live the rest of her days. What sort of a dragon lived under the orders of wolves?

The house where she was going to stay with her brother and uncle, they called it the Nightfort. It’s true name was actually Dragonstone Manor, named after the island outpost, castle her family still had, but Rhaegar had moved to the North when he married, after the death of his first wife and two children to a plague. He had never returned to the South, despite her mother’s pleadings, perhaps they could all go there and live, but he refused.

She had never met any of them. She wondered what kind of love her brother had that had brought him from the warm south to the cold north. And to stay, even, after the death of his second wife. No one knew how she died. It seemed she was there and then she was not. And Rhaegar was a shell of himself.

Vis told her they called it the Nightfort because it was black, dark, and dreary, after some fairy tale story the Northerners told, of a queen of death and ice and a man captured under her spell. “They love their stories,” he had scoffed.

Well Vis was dead now.

And the Northerners still had their stories.

She pushed from the wall of the ship and followed the captain at his urging, descending the gangway and trying to fend off “help.” “I am perfectly capable,” she snapped.

One of the sailors rolled his eyes. “Of course _your grace_ ,” he sneered.

She snorted. She hit her feet to the dock, following the captain. An older man immediately stepped forth. He had a craggy look and kind eyes, wearing worn brown clothing and she thought he might have even been missing some fingers, but it was hard to tell with the gloves he wore. “Lady Daenerys?” he asked. His accent was thick, almost harsh, and as far from the crisp, aristocratic accents of the Valyrians as it could possibly be.

“Yes.”

He took her hand, bowing smartly. “My name is Davos Seaworth, I am the groundskeeper of Dragonstone Manor, your brother sent me to collect you.”

She wasn’t sure why she felt so hurt that the _groundskeeper_ was collecting her instead of her brother. It wasn’t like he had much to do in his dark, angry manor. She felt her face fall, but quickly set her jaw. _I cannot be hurt. I cannot be upset._ She hid her pain with a haughty air. “He couldn’t be bothered to do so himself?” she snapped. She grit her teeth. “Our family is _dead_ , and he won’t even greet me?” She sniffed and gazed around. The haughtiness was only so much of an act, as she was instantly overcome with an immense distaste, disgusted at the smells of the port and the city around them. _Valyria had better sanitation than this cesspool._ Of course, Valyria was far more advanced than any city in Westeros could hope to be. It was probably why the gods punished them. She hated the gods now. She wrapped her cloak tighter about her. There was no use stewing over it. Valyria was gone. “Fine. Just get me out of here.”

The man smiled, eyes twinkling. _He seems nice, I guess._ “Of course. It is two days ride to Dragonstone. I have brought one of the maids to attend you, she is at the inn.”

“ _Days!?_ ” she exclaimed. No one told her that it was that far! She shifted her feet, already feeling the damp chill settling around her. She would be frozen by the time they reached the Nightfort.

“Aye, Lord Rhaegar likes his...” Davos thought for a word. “Privacy.”

 _Seclusion, isolation, more like._ She gathered her skirts to avoid getting muck and gods knew what else on them. “Fine then. Let’s get going. I do not want to be here any longer than necessary.”

He chuckled. She was annoyed at his jovial attitude. _What did he have to be happy about? He lived in this awful place, worked for her clearly awful brother._ “Of course, Lady Daenerys.”

In Valyria she was a Princess. Then again, they all styled themselves like that. From what she knew of Westeros the only ones who called themselves Princes and Princess were the Independent Principality of Dorne. Rhaegar’s first wife was one of the family there, Elia.

She knew little of his second wife, just that she died, and he grew into a recluse. She climbed into the wagon beside Davos, sneering slightly. “No carriage?”

“Nay, Lord Rhaegar has no need of carriages.”

She nodded idly, gazing around the streets. People stared at her and pointed, muttering things to themselves. They gaped and one child laughed outright, said something about her being a ghost. She scowled. “Are all Northerners this rude?”

He chuckled. “They are a strange and stubborn lot. Don’t like outsiders.”

“That is a polite way of saying they are xenophobic.”

He cocked his head, amused. “Afraid I don’t know that word.”

One Northerner glanced at her and spit on the ground. She heard him say something about _Dragonfuckers._

She arched an eyebrow, snarling. “Means they hate foreigners.”

“Hmmm, well we don’t at Dragonstone Manor. You will like it there I hope.”

Daenerys said nothing, because she highly doubted it. She stared around White Harbor finding absolutely nothing about it she liked or could find hopeful in. It was nothing like Valyria, nothing like the gorgeous dragonglass spires with their colorful glass windows, images of dragons and gods and goddesses of old immortalized in them. This place was barren and gloomy. She would not give it a chance, as it did not deserve one, not if it was filled with people who stared at her like she was some attraction in a rich magister’s menageries. She hated it.

She wanted to go _home._

Tears filled her eyes; she would not cry, she vowed. _It is weak, and you are not weak, you are Daenerys Targaryen. A princess of Valyria._ She tried not to cry, because if she did, it would mean that they were all gone. All her family, her few friends, and even the first boy she had ever kissed and the other she had fancied to marry one day. The home she knew. The country she had called home. She wanted to go there again, but she couldn’t.

Because there was no more home.

“Watch your step ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes at sweet Missandei, the only bright thing she had been able to focus on or find in this horrible landscape. She took the maid’s hand, stepping down from the wagon and onto the hard-packed dirt that constituted a driveway, sweeping up from the main road and around a moss-covered fountain, dry as a bone, and looking as though the last time it had seen water was when the First Men came through. She let go of Missy’s hand—her maid had insisted she not call her by her nickname, as it was not _proper_ , but when Dany heard Davos refer to her by the friendly shortening, she insisted.

As she had also insisted that Missy refer to her as _Dany_ , a nickname that her brother Viserys had used, because he had been unable to say her full name when he was small. It caused her heart to squeeze in painful memory, but she hoped maybe she might be able to find _something_ in this godsforsaken land that was familiar. Having her handmaid refer to her by a common name would be the first step.

“Dany,” she reminded her.

Missy flushed, her caramel skin darkening at the reminder. She ducked her head a little and smiled, sweet. “Dany.”

“Thank you.” She finally looked up, taking in the manor that would be her new home. She stared, horrified at it. It was hideous. It was nothing like the dark beauty of Valyria or what she had imagined the castle at Dragonstone Island would be like. It was hulking and black, the stones covered in dark ivy and moss. There were trees all around, she heard Davos refer to it as the _Wolfswood. “Stretches clear from here to Winterfell, the home of the Starks. You will find that wolves are an often-used image in these parts. In fact, Dragonstone Manor is built on Stark land.”_

She supposed it was because Rhaegar’s second wife was a Stark. She was Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Would have been the Duchess of Winterfell, if they were in Valyria, where women were not supplanted by their younger brothers. Unfortunately, this was Westeros and when her father and older brother died, the title went instead to her younger brother and his new wife, who was from the Riverlands. The Riverlands were controlled by the Duke of Riverrun. She had tried to focus on learning about the history in this strange world on the two-day journey from White Harbor.

Her brother was an Earl in this world, she was not sure how. She supposed he earned the title via some decree from a King or some such nonsense when he married a Princess of Dorne. She did not know what that made her. _Countess Daenerys?_ It sounded horrible. She was a princess. They would know her as such. Thus far they only referred to her as _Lady_ but it seemed that only the Dukes and Duchesses were addressed by their actual title.

It was so confusing, so nonsensical. So ancient, she thought, continuing to gape at the house. It was hulking, the windows dark and curtains drawn. There was a great gray set of doors, steps leading up to them. A stone dragon roared on one side and a wolf snarled on the other. She turned, looking at the dry fountain; it was also made up of wolves and dragons. She was not sure what to make of that. Or of any of it. In particular the overgrowth of the place. There were vines everywhere, trees encroaching on the drive, and she could see in the distance that even the moors looked ready to take over, heather creeping up to the residence. _Perhaps the gardener had not been doing his job very well,_ she wondered.

A young man with kind dark eyes and skin, who could have been mistaken for Missandei’s kin, approached, wearing gray trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. “This is Grey,” Davos introduced, as the young man bowed quickly to her. “He is one of our handymen around here. Not many household staff I am afraid. Help me with this Grey, will you? There’s a good lad.”

Dany smiled, imperceptibly, at the look that passed between Missy and Grey. She supposed they were sweethearts, or at least, it seemed Missy wanted to be. Grey looked flustered at the gaze she set upon him. She chuckled, turning to look upon the house again, sighing hard. She did not suppose she would be finding anyone around here. A life of loneliness, like her brother had crafted.

She frowned, disappointed that he had not greeted her. “Where is my brother, Master Davos?”

The door opened, a younger woman rushing out, with mousy brown hair pulled from her face with a kerchief, wringing her hands on an apron. “Oh I am so sorry I was not here to greet you! My lady, I am Gilly, I am one of the maids. I will help you with your things and show you to your rooms.”

“Where is my brother?” she repeated, having clearly met most of the small staff. She knew that her uncle was quite elderly, often confined to a chair as he was now completely blind and mostly enjoyed sitting on the balcony and getting fresh air. Even though she didn’t know how he did not freeze to death; in the three days from the port it seemed to have gotten even colder than she thought it could be, for it was springtime.

They all exchanged an odd look. She thought it was as though they knew something they did not wish her to know. She scowled, turning away; fine, let them have their secrets. She shivered against the wind, gusting around her. It seeped into her bones. She turned around, Gilly gesturing for her to follow her into the house. She sighed, supposing she would not have an answer. “My uncle?” she asked. “Where is he?”

“Master Aemon I fear spends most of his afternoons abed. The weather is harsh on his old bones. He will be delighted to see you when he wakes, I will fetch you at once,” Gilly said, leading her into the foyer. She gestured, folding her hands in front of her, sighing and gazing around the space. “This is the main hall. Tis’ grand!”

 _I suppose so._ It was dark. She noted that unlike most homes, there was no grand portrait of the current homeowner or family. In what she imagined was its place, there was a painted image of a series of wolves tearing into a stag, bringing it to the ground. “That is quite…dark,” she commented, gesturing.

Gilly’s face softened, nodding and peering up at it, whispering. “The late Lady Lyanna painted it. She was quite fond of wolves.”

“The symbol of the Stark family.”

“Aye. Many paintings in the manor are those of Lady Lyanna.”

“Did you know her?” she asked.

Gilly dropped her head. She paused, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment; Dany thought perhaps her eyes were darting a bit. It was a simple question, yet it seemed to confound her. Maybe she was sad about it. “I…I…no. No I did not. I believe Davos is the only member of the staff who has met her. She died, so young.” She lifted her head slightly, her brown eyes wide. “But you must not mention Lady Lyanna in your brother’s presence, milady.”

She scowled. “Oh?”

“No, it pains him so. He canna’ bear to have any image of her on the walls, he misses her so terribly. Tis’ why there is so much locked up in the manor. It hurts him you see. He loved her so much.” She seemed to find it rather romantic, while Dany thought it was just strange. Perhaps her only living kin was as mad as their father, she wondered, glancing at the painting of the wolves again. Gilly lightly touched the gilded frame. “He keeps these in her memory, but do not mention her.”

“I won’t.” She doubted she would even speak to her brother. He could not be bothered to greet her.

They ascended the staircase, dark oak spiraling up to the second floor. She paused, frowning, turning slightly to peer down one of the dark hallways. It seemed like the sun had died, in this part of the manor. No doors or windows were open, no torches lit. Gilly it seemed, planned to take her to the other wing, where at least there were sconces lit. She gestured. “What’s down there?”

“Closed rooms,” Gilly said.

She nodded, frowning. She was unsure why it bothered her so. She turned to follow Gilly, when she froze, hearing a peculiar sound.

_A wolf howl._

“What is that?” she blurted; eyes wide, surprised.

Gilly shifted on her feet. “What was what?” she whispered.

“That sound. A wolf?”

Gilly shrugged, ducking her head and hurrying down the hall. “I do not know ma’am, I heard nothing.”

Dany stared after the maid, thinking she must be mad too. It was as clear as day. A wolf howl, in the middle of the daylight hours? Perhaps it was sick or injured. Should someone not go find it? Put it out of its misery? Lest it attack them or the horses? She glanced over her shoulder again, at the black hallway, scowling. There was something to this house she did not like. An ominous presence.

“Milady!”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, coming.”

And it seemed perhaps Gilly was ignorant or maybe even deaf, because she said nothing again as another wolf howl called through the manor, echoing in the empty halls.

The chambers where Gilly showed her to were clean, if a bit shabby. There was a faint layer of dust, even though it was clear that they had been updated and dressed to accommodate her. The room was dark, even if it did have four large floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out upon the grounds and the Wolfswood. She felt cold in the room, despite the stone hearth, with wolves and dragons engraved in the fine wooden mantle. It was clear that at some point this had been a lovely home, probably filled with sunshine, but curtains were drawn, and doors closed. The lack of light served to darken the pale gray decor and her rooms alone looked as though perhaps they could be quite splendid. Should anyone have cared to treat them the way they probably should be treated.

There weren't even flowers. She used to have flowers every day in her rooms in Valyria. In vases that sat on every table, in bouquets spilling from the windows. Potted plants and greenery draping through the windows. There was a vine that hung down the side of her tower, she used to sneak down it when it was nighttime, to sneak around the passageways that crossed through the Targaryen's spire. Sometimes even to sneak out to kiss a boy or two in the stables. Or in the old dragon nests, where no one dared venture but her.

It was just so cold here. It was hard to imagine anyone living there at all. Gilly and Missy had left her, closing the door with the promise that she was free to leave, should she feel the need to explore, but there had been an undercurrent of concern in their words. She did not plan on leaving this room. There was nothing here for her; she hated it already. The people were kind, but what sort of people worked for a monster such as her brother? A monster who did not even go to see his last surviving relative, his own little sister? She wanted to scream at Rhaegar. If she left this room, she would go find him and she would hit him.

Although she did wonder about her Uncle Aemon. She would like to meet him. He had been around for so long; he was almost a hundred and five years of age. The things he must have experienced! Dany loved history, loved to learn about the past. Learning about the past was the only way they could avoid the same mistakes in the future. Perhaps if the lords in Valyria had heeded the past, they would have been able to leave in time. Would have been able to prepare and evacuate before the volcanoes destroyed their land.

She touched the duvet on her four-poster canopy bed. It was dark gray and rather utilitarian. There were heavy gray velvet curtains and draperies around her bed. To Gilly and Missy's credit, the only layer of dust seemed to be the sort that would never leave, too stubborn to let go from the mantle or the windowsills. She walked over to the window, gazing down at the yards in the back of the house. There were hedges, which try as he might, Grey was never going to be able to cut back on his own. They were so wild and angry, curling masses of vines and thorns.

It appeared as though there was even a wall, beyond the stone terrace, beyond an old fountain that like the one in the front was moss-covered and unused. Pines and weeping trees with strange leaves covered everything. It was so wild, so unruly and just... _angry._ Did the grounds mimic the feelings of its master? Was her brother angry? She knew from Viserys he had always been melancholy, she imagined of course he would be—he had lost two wives and two children. He had no children with his last wife. He was just sullen, bitter, and _horrible_ , she decided without meeting him.

Davos had brought up noe of her trunks. It was not like she had anything to her name. She went to a wardrobe, tugging on the warped wooden door, yelping as she stumbled backwards when it finally opened. She coughed, waving at a bit of dust that clouded up, peering in and seeing that there were several bolts of fabric. All in thick heavy fabric. All of it dour shades of gray and navy. She wrinkled her nose, poking at it, as if it were to grow teeth and jump out to bite her. "I am to wear _this_?" she sneered. "Ugh. I'd sooner die."

She flicked through some dresses that were already hung; whomever they belonged to was taller than her, but she saw that they had been hemmed a bit. She supposed that they were for her. She would try them later. They were the same thick, scratchy fabric. Tartan plaids in some cases and in others brown stockings to go with. She made a face, gagging at the idea of wearing these hideous garments.

It wasn't like she only ever wore flowing, soft gowns of pale blue and lavender. She liked to wear trousers. It was quite common in Valyria, they were often running upstairs and riding horses, and it was just easier to move when the heat of the day could keep you down. She intended to maintain wearing trousers beneath her gowns and her knee-high boots. Not the little ankle boots with tiny heels that were sitting on the floor of the wardrobe.

"This place is the worst," she muttered, slamming the doors. She marched to the trunk, flinging it open and began to take out her art supplies and her books. They were the only things she'd managed to salvage from the disastrous journey. The few treasured possessions she had left, she supposed. Her fingers wrapped tight around a small fabric wrapped item. She squeezed her eyes shut as she squeezed on the item.

With heavy breath, held in her chest, she unwrapped it, and stared at the miniature of her mother. It was all she had of her now. Her ring and the tiny drawn image of her mother's beautiful face, her kind eyes, and her soft, sweet smile. Rhaella Targaryen was everything Daenerys had ever wanted to become. A good woman, who loved her family above all else. Who _sacrificed_ everything for her family. Kind, just, and dutiful.

If anything, Daenerys was angry, snappish, and selfish. She knew it about herself. She was always angry. Now more so. Sometimes she didn't even quite know why. She touched the drawing, the way the artist had drawn her mother to be as close to an angel as she possibly could. Rhaella was a dragon, she thought. Protective and loyal. Fearsome to anyone who crossed her children. Even Mad Aerys, her violent and often insane father. Dany did not miss him. Did not think she could. he was vicious. He had died before the Doom. So unfair. He should have melted in fire. He was no dragon.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a hard rap on the door. "Lady Daenerys?" Missy called. "Your brother has summoned you to his solar. He would like to take summer with you. May I help you dress?"

She blinked hard at tears. "Um, yes...fine." She wrapped her mother's image tight in its protective linen, shoving it under her pillow. She strode to the door, swinging it open. Missy smiled warmly at her. It even managed to thaw a piece of Dany's cold heart. She smiled back, quick. "I do not know if I have anything suitable."

"Oh we will look," Missy said, cheerful. She walked over to the wardrobe, opening it up. "Gilly mended some of these dresses, for use until we could get your measurements to make you some new ones. I am afraid it gets cold and damp here, so you will need to wear more wool..."

"I would like trousers made," she interrupted.

Missy blinked, already removing one of the dresses from the wardrobe. "Trousers?" she echoed.

Dany nodded. She removed a pair from her trunk, showing Missy, who seemed in awe. "Yes, trousers, such as these. They are good for riding." She gazed to the moors, stretching into foggy mist beyond the house. "I assume there are horses here for riding?"

"Of course, Davos usually tends to them."

She would need to speak to Davos about providing her with a horse. Or was this something she should talk to her brother about? She was not sure how this house ran, but judging from her brief interactions and introductions, she thought the household staff seemed to be more aware of what was happening than her melancholic brother. Seeing as he could not be bothered to even _greet_ her, she thought angrily. She would never forgive him for that transgression.

Missy removed one of the dresses from her trunk, to hang, fingering the filmy material, awed. "This is beautiful."

"Hmm, one of my favorites." She hardly could see herself wearing it in this cool clime. It was pale lavender fabric, almost see-through even, with no sleeves, to be pinned at the shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the post tight. "Is my brother good to you?"

"Oh yes." Missy had not spoken much in the travel days from White Harbor about Rhaegar, but Dany was curious. she wanted as much information as possible before she met the creature. Missy smiled warmly. Her dark eyes were like melted chocolate, Dany thought, and so very kind. "Lord Rhaegar is very fair to us, he pays us more than the average maid or household servant."

 _That was something._ "Where did you meet him?"

"In Essos."

 _Essos!?_ Dany slammed her brows together, voice instantly chilled. "He was in Essos? When?"

"Oh, I met him when I was a child. You see, I was a slave." She said it so matter-of-fact that Dany almost fell off the bed in surprise. The fact slapped her in the face with its brutal honesty. The idea of slavery was abhorrent to Dany and she often attended protests and meetings in Valyria to combat the spread of it in the Freehold. It was still rampant in most of the Free Cities, and in particular the Slaver's Bay cities, with their nasty harpies lording over the cities from atop disgusting pyramids, built on the backs of their people.

Dany stared for a moment, trying to determine where Missy was from, if she was originally from Essos. She cocked her head, immediately softening to the woman's plight. "What happened?" She swallowed hard. "If I may ask of course, i do not mean to be rude."

"It is quite alright." Missy continued fussing with the few gowns and garments that remained in the trunk, hanging them diligently in the wardrobe. She seemed faraway, her lilting voice almost like bells, tinkling in the quiet room. "I am originally from the Isle of Naath. We are a peaceful people and I was taken by slavers when I was a child. I do not remember my family. They sold me to a master in Astapor. I learned many languages, acting as scribe and translator. Lord Rhaegar traveled there for purposes unknown, he met me and purchased me, freeing me immediately, to become his scribe and translator. He did the same with Grey, you know."

 _So he does have a heart. Just not for me._ "That was quite kind of him," she murmured. Her knuckles pained her, so tight on the post. The stabbing in her heart grew stronger, faster. He _hated_ her perhaps. He did not even go to Valyria when he was in Essos. He did not greet her in White Harbor or even here. She shivered. Missy noticed the action and picked up a shawl, carrying it to her. "Thank you," she whispered. she lifted her head, murmuring. "Translator? How many languages?"

"Nineteen."

" _Nineteen!_ "

The young woman chuckled. "Yes, High Valyrian is my favorite of course, it is the only language suitable for poetry."

The smile on Dany's face broadened, pleased at that bit of information. "Oh?" She began to speak, her heart continuing its painful throb in the cage of her chest, her mother tongue flowing from her lips for the first time in months. Missy's eyes lit up and she chirped back. They giggled, fussing together over the accents they both used. She felt happy. _Well, as close to happy as I can get I suppose_ , she thought, sliding off the bed. She picked up the woolen dress Missy had set out. "Help me with this please. I suppose I should dress Northern for my Northern brother."

"I would hardly refer to Lord Rhaegar as Northern," Missy said with a high tinny laugh. Her cheeks darkened in slight embarrassment, as Dany lifted her brow in amusement. She ducked her head. "Forgive me. I should not have..."

"No, it is fine. You know more of him than I do."

To that, the handmaiden said nothing, simply busied herself again with the unpacking. She worked quietly and efficiently. In the meantime, Dany stared out the window. This place was a ghost manor, hardly any movement in the grounds. She lifted her head again, thinking she saw a movement towards a wall of green. She frowned, pressing her fingers to the warped glass, staring hard, forcing herself to focus. Anticipation of an unknown sort sparked in her belly. Her hands grew damp on the cold pane, but she did not blink, scarcely breathed.

_there it was again._

Just a flash, a stark white against the deep green, and her eyes widened, in fascinated horror at a monstrous dog-- nay, a wolf!-- emerging from the thicket of trees. The animal, it might have been a specter of her imagination for how fast it moved, disappeared again, and she hitched a breath. In her hears she heard her heartbeat rapidly. The first feeling she truly felt since she landed on these frozen shores.

"My lady? Are you well?"

"Fine," she puffed, breath fogging the glass around her lips. She blinked; the wolf was gone. _where did it go?_ She swallowed, somehow her throat had grown parched. "Missy? Is there a dog in the manor?"

"Um....no."

It did not go unnoticed, the very tiny catch in the woman's voice. _She is lying._ She turned, staring hard at Missandei, who ducked her head again, bowing very slightly. "You are free to explore the house, Lord Rhaegar said, but of course, the west wing is off limits."

 _West Wing?_ She smirked. "I did not believe this manor qualified as large enough to have wings."

"It is to the right of the staircase, the sconces are not lit." Missandei almost begged, her fingers twisting in front of her apron. She chewed her bottom lip. "it is most important you listen, Lord Rhaegar does not wish anyone to venture there...it...it belonged to the late Lady Lyanna."

"Did you know her?"

Missandei shook her head, quiet. "No, I fear only Davos knew her. I believe Lord Rhaegar met me in Essos while he was away, in mourning." She lifted her head, hesitating, and then lifted her brows, whispering. "Although I believe Gilly may have known her."

 _Odd, Gilly said she didn't know her. She died before Gilly arrived._ Dany scowled. She did _not_ like being lied to. "Very well. Thank you. I can dress on my own. Where is supper?"

"In the dining room, my lady."

"Dany," she said, correcting her. She figured it would take time.

Missy smiled politely once more. "Yes, of course... _Dany._ "

Dany waited, watching the young woman walk over to the door, before she threw out a question. "If there is no dog, then how come I heard a howl? Not too long ago?"

The maid placed her hand on the doorknob and with eyes downcast, barely turned. "Perhaps it is tiredness, Dany. There are no dogs." She pursed her lips and waited a beat. "Only the memories of wolves."

The ominous statement hung thick in the air. The door closed and Dany remained standing, wondering just where exactly her mother had sent her. She glanced out the window again, staring at the wall of green vines, and for a brief moment, she saw it. Only this time the animal paused long enough and it might have been staring straight through to her.

A white wolf with blood-red eyes.

The dragon within her would not admit she was scared to meet her brother, yet the rational part of her knew that she was simply manifesting this odd mysterious creation of her brother in her mind and she feared it. She kept her face impassive, wearing the woolen dark blue dress Missy had set out for her, feeling quite warm in it. Dragon’s blood ran hot in her veins, her ability to maintain a calm face in light of the trauma she had endured the last year since Valyria’s destruction a testament to it. Her fingers dabbled along the cool oak banister and her eyes scanned the foyer, this time in the darkness of the evening, with only a few candles lit around.

It could frighten children, she mused, some sort of haunted mansion in an old nan’s nighttime tales. The paintings of wolves and dragons added to the mystery. The walls were stone or painted gray. Sconces dripped with old candles or were not filled at all. She entered the drawing room, unsure what to expect. She placed her hand on the doorframe, staring at the space, her stomach a knot in her belly, her blood pulsing and head floaty in nervous anticipation.

The hearth roared with orange and red flames, two chairs flanking it and a low table set between. There was a single occupant in the chairs, hands folded and head cocked, listening intently. Her heart soared, a giggle unable to escape her lips, and she stepped closer, looking upon her Uncle Aemon for the very first time. The elderly man wore black old-fashioned robes, as though he were in a medieval library, his hands frail and speaking to his many years on the earth. He turned his head towards her and she could see in the dim light of the fire and a few candelabras scattered around the room that his eyes were milky white.

“Child?” he called, a hand reaching out. “Is that you?”

“It is, uncle,” she called, hurrying towards him, the woolen skirts almost weighing her down, frustrated. She tugged them, falling to her knees at his side, small hands reaching to enclose his frailer one. It was deceptively strong, squeezing tight, and he was warm, despite his cold appearance, with skin as pale as his milky eyes and hair just as white. “Oh Uncle Aemon,” she whispered. Tears of grief, relief, and overwhelming happiness at finally seeing him trickled down her cheeks. “It is so wonderful to see you.”

_My family._

His other hand reached, mapping her face, his thin lips pulling in a smile. “Oh! Your face! So like your mother’s.”

More tears fell, in memory of her mother. “She spoke so highly of you,” she whispered.

“She was such a kind soul. You favor her…child, please, do not kneel. Sit with me, while we wait for your brother.”

The reminder of her brother brought her back to reality from her happy departure at the sight of her uncle. She frowned briefly, eyebrows flickering. “Oh?”

“He tends to business, well into the late hours,” Aemon said. He smiled again, eyes lifted to the ceiling, while his hands continued to trace her face and hold her fingers tight. He shook his head briefly, reedy voice filled with elation. “To have another Targaryen in the home again, more youth, it is needed. We are so pleased you are here, so grateful to the gods that you have come to us, that you were spared.”

She sniffed, shaking her head, whispering. “Sometimes I do not know if that is something to be grateful for, uncle.” The pain she’d walled off from her heart since Valyria seeped over the edges of those barriers. She bit her lower lip, almost straight through. “Rhaegar did not even come to see me at White Harbor.”

“Something I do apologize for.”

Aemon tilted his head to the smooth, icy voice in the doorway, while she jumped, startled. “Ah! Rhaegar my boy! Please, tell me, is sweet Daenerys as beautiful as Rhaella?”

 _How would he even know?_ she thought bitterly. She stood from her kneeling position, taking in the sight of her brother for the first time in her life.

Rhaegar Targaryen was tall, was her first thought, in the doorway of the drawing room. He cut an imposing figure, in an entirely black outfit, cravat knotted neatly at the center of his neck. His silver hair—like hers—pulled from his thin pale face with a neat black velvet ribbon into a queue. He held his arms behind his back. His shirt was crisp, his coat falling to his knees. Black breeches tucked into black boots. It was his face that drew her in, trying to see if it was remotely close to Viserys or their mother or even what she knew of their father.

 _His eyes._ They were indigo. Rhaella’s were such pale purple they were almost translucent, while Viserys’s eyes were lilac. Hers tended towards rich violet, like jewels, but Rhaegar’s eyes…they were so deep and dark they appeared to be like two abysses staring back at her. They were sad, so sunken back it was like he’d almost drowned himself in them. His lips were unsmiling, set in a straight line, and the lack of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes or around those angry lips suggested he had not smiled or laughed in quite some time.

He tilted his head towards her, that icy voice still soft. Her skin prickled, as though a cold draft had just come through the windows. “Daenerys, little sister. It is truly you.”

“Yes,” she said. She lifted her chin up and tightened her fingers into fists at her sides. She hesitated, but then thought, the dragon should be free, should it not? Fire burned in her throat. “Not that you would know, you did not greet me at White Harbor. Did not see me when I first arrived.” She scowled, spitting the flames, as Aemon grinned beside her and Rhaegar remained unblinking. “How can you call yourself my family? We lost _everyone_ and we are the last of the dragons, are we not? You should not have ignored me!”

Aemon laughed, head falling back to the armchair, clapping his hands. “Oh my nephew! She is truly the blood of the dragon, is she not?”

The Earl of Dragonstone, the Prince of Valyria, whatever other insane titles he held, he did not smile, did not laugh, but she thought perhaps his eyes flickered with the barest hint of light. He tilted his head towards her, quiet. “I do apologize Daenerys. I…” he trailed off and bowed his head deeper this time, eyes downcast. “I am afraid I allowed my grief to consume me and have remained here too long. I did not wish to burden you on the journey with my grief.”

“My grief is fresher than yours,” she snapped. She growled. “I had to watch mother wave goodbye, I sold her tiara to try to save Viserys, and watched him die too.” The grief was so numb for her at this point. She narrowed her eyes on him, wondering if he was so dead inside that he felt nothing, not even grief at the loss of their homeland. “Do you care at all that Valyria is gone?”

Rhaegar’s brow slammed to a point. “I do of course,” he said.

“You could show it.” She looked to Aemon, who was still smiling. She glanced between the two of them and then looked down at her feet. All she felt was achy tiredness now. She moved towards Aemon, for Rhaegar did not go to her. “I am…grateful you have taken me in.”

“You are family, sweet girl.” Aemon appeared to be near tears, his blind eyes damp. “A Targaryen alone in the world, is a terrible thing.”

Rhaegar nodded. “Yes.” He pursed his lips. “Before supper I wish to ask of you, if there is anything you need, please let Missandei know. She will send for it from the village. You will have new dresses and gowns made as well.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She puffed her cheeks, figuring it was the least he owed her. “And I wish to ride around the grounds, if I may. If I am to live here, I should at least be able to have a horse, shouldn’t I?”

Aemon murmured something that sounded like _so like Rhaella_ , while Rhaegar nodded. “Of course.” He paused and then when he spoke again, the ice had returned. It was like shutters slammed over his eyes as well. “You are permitted to traverse the grounds and the mansion, but you are to remain out of the west wing and do not go searching behind closed doors.”

 _So many of these doors are closed_ , she thought. She said nothing. There was a finality and something akin to threat in her brother’s words. “Fine,” she whispered.

“Very good.” Rhaegar glanced at Aemon. “Great-Uncle Aemon enjoys it when we read to him. I suggest you spend time in the library.”

“My sight has failed me for so long, sweet Daenerys,” Aemon sighed. He offered his hand to her and she helped him to his feet, his arm linking with hers, patting at her wrist, shuffling towards the door. “But I do enjoy listening to the words I used to see when they come from the youth. Come now, I may be four and one-hundred years, but I do still need to eat. I presume supper is ready, for I can smell those potatoes that Gilly makes with the rosemary herb.”

Dany supposed that was as close to any sort of family gathering, they would have prior to supper. She helped her uncle to the dining room, unsure where to sit after she sat beside him. There were three place settings, yet two were on one side and one on the other. None at the head of the table. Rhaegar purposefully sat at the single setting across, so she took the cue to sit beside Aemon.

They ate quietly, Aemon making most of the conversation. She supposed that must have been how it was between the two of them. She cleared her throat, reaching for her a glass of water. “I saw the most peculiar sight today,” she said, as Aemon was discussing the wildlife in the area.

“Oh?” he asked.

“Hmm, I believe I saw a great white wolf, it had red eyes.”

If she was not an astute learner and observer, she would have missed the flicker in Rhaegar’s eyes or the hum that Aemon emitted. She picked up her fork again and bit off a piece of potato, watching Rhaegar in particular. He lifted his wine glass in his slim fingers, sliding them along the stem before he met her gaze. “You must have been seeing things,” he whispered. “We have no wolves this close to the manor. They keep to the wood.” He smirked. “And none who are white.”

“I am quite sure of what I saw.”

“Fatigue,” Rhaegar snapped. His eyebrows lifted. “Plays tricks on us sometimes.”

Dany would not accept his response. _He’s lying._ “Yes, but I thought I also heard…”

“You heard nothing, probably the wind,” he interrupted.

Aemon hummed again and patted her wrist. “I believe it is time for dessert. Gilly makes a wonderful apple tart, perhaps she has made it this evening.” He turned his head slightly, calling. “Gilly!”

Dany kept her gaze on Rhaegar. He stared at her and she waited for him to eventually turn away first. She shivered, looking down at her plate. She was suddenly no longer hungry. Secrets were heavy, weighing down on the three of them, and she felt very odd. It felt as though they were not the only ones in the room.

She turned her head slightly, towards the other side of the room. Gilly fussed about getting the plates and clearing and adding to the table, but she thought she heard it again, on the other side of the wall.

_Another wolf howl._


	2. a wolf's howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany follows a nighttime prowler, making two very curious discoveries; another member of the household is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping I will have one chapter a week posted, but no promises. I'm taking my time with the chapters, want to make sure they are as full as possible, teasing some of the mysteries. 
> 
> Enjoy and thank you for those who are interested in this and have posted comments!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49616173787/in/dateposted-public/)

With the advent of spring, one often thought of rebirth, growth, and the dawning of a new season, punctuated with sunny skies, warm breezes, and dewy buds of fresh flowers. Blooms of pink, orange, yellow, and purple, with vibrant green stems and shoots, smiling to the bees that buzzed about them or the birds swooping to gather the nectar. Or at least, that was what springtime in Valyria always entailed. Or in the rest of the world.

In the North, on the grounds of Dragonstone Manor, it was as if winter still had not ended. it clung stubbornly in the driving rains that kept Dany inside all day long, sometimes for weeks at a time. It chilled her to the bone, requiring her to curl up in front of the fire in her room for a sense of warmth. It prevented the sun from existing, clouds rolling through in shades of gray and black. Despite the rain, the grounds remained dark and wet, muddy instead of earthy, deep almost black green instead of verdant. Gloom covered everything, even the people.

It was like happiness came here to die, Dany thought one day, staring out at Davos and Grey as they walked the horses out by the stables. She wanted to go riding; she had not been in over a week. A terrible storm contained them in the house. It had been almost three months since she arrived, although it felt like three years. She had combed every inch of the house she had access to, she had tried to venture the grounds but the poor weather confined her inside for too long. She spent most days in the kitchen with Missy and Gilly, helping them cook and clean. It was not proper for a lady, they had exclaimed, but Dany was no lady.

She spent the other half of her time sitting with Uncle Aemon, either in the library or in his chambers, when he was kept abed by cold. Rhaegar she rarely saw during daylight hours. Only at supper. She'd joked once to Grey that perhaps he was a vampire. Grey hadn't known what a vampire was, so she read to him from a book on the blood-sucking creatures of the night that were known to inhabit a portion of the Shadowlands in Essos.

The staff were the closest she had to friends. Davos was kind, Grey was sweet, and Missy and Gilly were her best girlfriends. There was no sense of society here at Dragonstone Manor, although she was not sure whether to be grateful for that or miss it. She chose to be grateful—she was not of right mood most days to think of having to entertaining what amounted to lords and ladies of this awful continent. Gilly and Missy were honestly the only friends she had ever had in her life; she was not well-liked by most of the other girls in Valyria, for reasons she could never understand. Maybe it was because she just did not partake in the ideas or the general entertainment that gentle ladies thought they should be doing.

Sewing and embroidery were boring to her and she had never been good at either, but at least Missy was patient, showing her how to mend clothes. Gilly admitted that embroidery was not necessary for her clothing, so she was not very good at it, but she would be happy to show her a few samplers she had done in her childhood. Dany thanked her, but was glad that the two women were more akin to her belief on sewing—it was for clothes and not entertaining.

She was glad for the trousers that arrived when Grey arrived from town one morning with packages from King's Landing, the capitol, where Rhaegar had sent for a new wardrobe for her. They made her feel like she could actually explore this strange world, made her feel similar to how she felt in Valyria. She _loved_ riding, loved the feel of the misty air on her cheeks as she went about the moors. She preferred to travel alone, but it seemed in this world that was not tolerated, Grey or Davos riding with her.

The silver mare Davos presented her with was a gorgeous beast, gentle eyes and temperament. “Rhaegar purchased her from the horse lords of Essos, a couple years past, but she has no name,” Davos had said, smiling gently at her, lifting his brows. “What shall you call her, milady?”

“Tessarion,” she murmured, stroking her hand over the lovely horse’s soft neck, the silver coat shimmering with the movement, even as the sun remained hidden behind the clouds. She could only imagine the mare’s beauty when the sun finally did get a chance to gleam off her white mane and hide. Davos frowned, unfamiliar with the Valyrian name. She smiled. “Tessarion was one of the Fourteen Flames, the gods of Valyria. The goddess of music, arts, knowledge…poetry…” She gazed at Davos from the other side of the mare, at his curiosity. “I can teach you about them. The Fourteen Flames. Targaryens named their dragons after these gods, in honor of them.”

Davos nodded to her, intrigued. “I would love to learn more, milady.”

So most of her days started with her waking to rain, breaking her fast with Uncle Aemon if he were up to it, in a conservatory off the kitchen, and then while he retired to rest, she would maybe go to the library and find a book, take it to the solar to read. If it weren’t raining, she would immediately head for the stables, to take Tessarion out to ride. Sometimes even with rain, she would venture out to just walk around, because the manor was stifling. Dany did not consider herself a waif, a gentlelady, someone easily frightened. Not after what she had lost. After what she had experienced.

Except there were times in that dark manor she felt as though the paintings watched her. The wolves painted in either snarling throes of war or sitting stoically by the fire, their eyes focused on her moving about, just coming and going. She heeded Rhaegar’s warnings, staying away from the west wing, but that did not stop her curiosity at why it held some sort of reverence or fear. She tried to get Missy or Gilly to give up information about it; surely the maids would know what lay beyond those closed doors? They were never forthright, always changing the subject or simply saying “It does not matter.”

_But it did matter._

Dany was never _spoiled._ She may just have been a tad sheltered for much of her early life, used to her mother doting on her, hiding her from her mad father’s moods and anger, and then later doing the same from her brother. She was used to getting her way, because she never knew what she actually _wanted._ It wasn’t until she stood on that bow, sobbing as her mother cried after her, saying they would see each other again, while the ground shook and the sea smoked, ominously warning that that would never be the case.

The year and a half she had spent getting from Valyria to this gloomy spot of the world shaped her into someone who was unaccustomed to hearing the word _no_ because she ensured it would be so. She fought for what she wanted, and she didn’t accept the alternative because well, that just would not do. So she would not accept these vague answers from people who obviously were keeping things from her. If she were to live here for the rest of her life, she would live _here_.

Not in some sort of half-world, off-limits to her. Especially when she was the only one who did not seem to understand what was happening around her. It was unacceptable.

Because the alternative in some cases was that she was as mad as her father, as mad as Viserys was in the end. That of course was _absolutely unacceptable._ She was not mad.

For she heard the wolf howls in the depths of the night. She heard the echoing and the creaking in the halls as people moved about to the west wing, thinking she was asleep, when she was really lurking behind those doors that were always closed. There was a secret in the manor. Rhaegar’s secret, something he did not want anyone to know, and something they all seemed to be keeping from even themselves.

She was not _mad._

It became clear to her at what amounted to family dinners, where Aemon did most of the talking and Rhaegar simply nodded, his entire vocabulary consisting of monosyllabic grunts and murmurs, that she was not considered part of this family. Rhaegar did not consider her _worthy_ of whatever he happened to be hiding from her. He ignored her casual comments about the odd sounds of the _wind_ or how she continued to see wolves, perhaps he ought to set traps in the gardens or the forest.

“I will speak with Davos,” he merely said, on occasion.

She grew frustrated. She would need to take stronger matters into her hands. Perhaps she was simply not looking close enough. She stayed up late, unable to sleep in this oppressive atmosphere of dew and damp, knees drawn to her chest, wrapped in a series of blankets and her mother’s silk shawl, embroidered with cream and pink dragons. If she closed her eyes hard enough, she could imagine the shawl still retained her mother’s scent. Jasmine and orange blossoms.

It was on a night, about six months after she had arrived at Dragonstone Manor, when she was bound in her shawls and blankets, sitting at the picture seat in the window beside her bed, when Dany thought she saw it.

_The white wolf._

It glowed, a ghost in the darkness of night and the eerie cast of the moon’s rays. She sat up slightly, her braid falling over her shoulder, eyes widening. She pressed her forehead to the glass, fingers on either side of her face, and her breath fogging around her view. “Where are you going?” she murmured, the gorgeous beast loping happily across the moors, before disappearing into the black of the woods.

_I refuse to back down. The animal is real. I will find out for certain._

She stumbled out of her tangle of blankets, her white woolen nightshift crackling slightly around her. In a quick moment she had pulled on her wool trousers, boots, and tugged on an overdress, fingers gripping a scarf Missy had knitted her and a hat she’d nicked from the stables, covering her noticeable hair with it and tucking the ends up under as best as possible.

_Curse this old house_ , she swore, when the wide planks under her feet groaned with movement. She rose on her toes, creeping towards the back staircase, hopping onto the banister and sliding down to avoid some of the loudest ones at the base of the stairs in the kitchens. She fumbled with the side door, slipping out to the yard and dodging mud puddles from the earlier evening’s rain.

The wolf had gone into the break of trees where sometimes Davos allowed her to ride Tessarion, but the trail ended about fifty yards into the thicket and required her to turn the horse through some of the brush and entangled branches of the ancient pines to reach the clearing that led towards the widest stretch of moor. She swallowed hard, wishing she had thought to bring a candle to light the way, for the moon’s light did not break through the canopy of trees the farther in she crept.

Her heart pounded with each step of her foot. “Maybe I am mad,” she mumbled, shaking her head slightly. She chuckled, lifting her face to try to find the stars, but the trees were so gnarled and tangled they created a roof of leaves, keeping out anything, even light. “I am following a wolf into a dark forest at midnight.”

If the wolf was even around, she had lost it once she’d moved from the window. She edged through the trees, looking at the ground and hoping she did not fall into a hole or step on an animal. She was well beyond the end of the trail. Probably far from the house too. She did not know how far Rhaegar’s property went, but the Wolfswood stretched for days of travel, she had heard from Aemon and seen on the maps that hung in his study.

“Where are you?” she mumbled.

_No way._ Almost as soon as she had spoken, she saw white flash in front of her vision. The trees had opened, less dense, and she could see better. The wolf appeared, standing and peering over its shoulder at her. She stared, unmoving. _Maybe it does not like humans. Maybe it won’t attack me._

And the wolf threw his head back and howled; high-pitched and calling. She gulped, unsure if she was even breathing. It was gorgeous. A wild creature of the forest, in its element, calling to the gods above. The wolf paced back and forth, lifting its head and dropping it quickly, red eyes focused on her. It moved farther in, stopped, and stamped in place.

_It wants me to follow._

Like a fool, she followed, drawn to the aura the creature exuded. The mystery and the peculiar feeling that had the tiny hairs on her skin and the back of her neck standing on end, her exposed flesh goose-pimpling with excitement. She dared not breathe, or even blink, lest the wolf disappear like the ghost it resembled, leading her to what suddenly seemed to just _appear_ in the moonlight.

It was a wall of vines, at first glance. Her hand trembled, lifting from her side, reaching to touch the almost black ivy. The leaves shivered, a light breeze perhaps rustling them, or maybe it was something else. _Magic_ , she first thought, drawing her hand back suddenly when the vines shifted. Beneath her touch, she initially thought, until she glanced down, a tiny gasp leaving her in surprise at the sight of the wolf pulling the vines away.

The creature was beautiful; larger than a regular wolf by far, with the most glorious fur that had not a speck of color, not even on the animal’s paws. The thick tail swished; the curious red eyes boring into hers. They appeared almost human. She stared down at him. _He is a friend._ She fell to her knees, ignoring the mud that now seeped onto her dress and coat, her fingers cold, reaching out, careful.

The wolf stepped towards her and she shifted, barely, her fingers finally making contact with the animal’s muzzle. “Oh,” she breathed, when his pressed into her palm. She expected the animal to be cold, as cold as she was in the dreary evening, but he was so _warm._ Might have just gotten up from lying before a fire. She leaned towards the wolf, unable to believe what was happening. She was out in this haunted wood, on her knees in barely her dressing gown, and she was touching a wild animal like he was a pet.

Her eyes closed, hands disappearing into the wolf’s thick ruff of fur. He leaned against her and she dropped her head to his, eyes closing tight. For the first time since she left Valyria, Dany felt… _peace._ She felt _home._ “How?” she wondered, eyes opening barely, to meet the wolf’s red ones. Her shoulders slumped and she gripped him tighter, craving that feeling again. She wanted it desperately. No matter how long she lived here, no matter how much Aemon made her smile, or Missy and Gilly entertained her, or how sweet an kidn Grey and Davos and all the others that wandered in and out of the manor to deliver goods or assist with the stables or kitchens, this was not her home.

But this wolf gave her that feeling, the feeling she had not realized she missed so terribly.

The wolf moved from her, to her distress, but she made no sound, and got to her feet. She watched the wolf walk along the side of the vines, and she touched them again. The wolf had tugged them back to reveal a stone wall. It was covered in moss and overgrown, but she could feel the coolness beneath. “What is this place?” she murmured. She walked along the side, moving vines, and stumbling, her hands out to feel. It was a wall that stretched not far, before it turned, and she followed it some more, and then she felt it.

_A door._

The wolf stood beside it, head dropped, watching her. She looked up, unable to see clearly in the dark, but she could feel the arch, the splintery wood beneath the growth. She nibbled her lower lip and knew that she must find what lay beyond the wall, beyond the door. She turned to look at the wolf, but he was gone.

_Like a ghost._

Dany stared at the wall, nodding. “I will be back,” she vowed. Giddy nerves jumped in her belly. She tugged her scarf around her and placed a hand on her hat, hurrying around the side of the wall from where she had come, following her tracks back to the trail, and then out to the gardens. She hurried inside, taking off her muddy boots so she did not track the dirt in the halls and create questions.

Head swiveling, looking for anyone that might be out to tend to the fires or for any other reason, she managed to get up to the floor, but her path was not without a quick detour. She held her breath, slipping into one of the unoccupied guest rooms, when she saw a movement at the end of the hall.

Silver hair caught in the glow from outside. _Rhaegar._ She bit her lower lip, watching carefully from the cracked door, as Rhaegar moved carefully towards the west wing of the house, holding a candle. He wore a black dressing gown and his hair was down to his shoulders. She could not see his face, but what reason did he have to be lurking about this late at night?

_Surely he knew all the secrets of this house, unlike me,_ she thought darkly. She knew it was foolish, daring and stupid, but she quickly moved from the room and nimbly darted down the hall, through the arch to the west wing, and up the stairs to the landing, following the dull light of Rhaegar’s candle as it made shadows on the dark walls. The carpet under her feet kept her from making a sound, and she was grateful she had left her boots off. She found herself crouched behind a wall, as Rhaegar stopped in front of a door.

He paused on the knob and then took a deep breath, opening it and stepping into the room. She could not see much in, but there was more light, shining from a fireplace and into the corridor. “I heard you,” Rhaegar’s voice said, soft. It was different from how he spoke to her. So cold, like she was a stranger. This was different, gentle and kind. “Are you alright?”

She could not hear; it was not Aemon, his rooms were at the end of the hall, close to her. She bit her lip, watching and staring, straining to hear. She thought she heard a voice, from a… _boy._

“It hurts.”

“I know, what can I do to help?”

“Make it stop,” the boy said, and she thought she heard his teeth gritting, obviously fighting something. He cried out in pain and then Rhaegar said something about how he could not give him more. _More of what?_ The boy spoke again, only this time he seemed more annoyed than anything else. “Let me go, please…I’m tired of these walls.”

“You know I can’t let you do that. The Maester said…”

“Fuck the Maester.”

“Jon, please.”

_Jon?_

The young man—she now knew he was not a boy given how suddenly his voice seemed to become stronger—exclaimed louder: “I do not want to be in here anymore! Why can’t you understand that? It gets worse the more I am in here, you know it.”

“Because I cannot bear to lose you too!”

“You won’t!”

“Yes I will! I lose everything dear to me!” Rhaegar was almost in tears. He sobbed, voice dropping. “I lost my entire family, my homeland, my…the love of my life…I will not lose you as well. You are safer here.”

The man’s voice, she recognized the Northern burr that seemed to also be similar to Gilly’s accent, snapped at Rhaegar. “You will lose me anyway, the longer you keep me here. It gets worse. Soon I will not be able to come back.”

“You will.”

“Hmm.” The young man did not seem to believe. He sighed heavily and groaned. She could hear a mattress squeaking. His voice went faraway, carrying the same melancholic tones as Rhaegar’s did. “You should just let me go. You are clinging to a dream; a dream that will never come true.”

Whatever Rhaegar said, she couldn’t hear, because she suddenly caught sight of the interior of the room, when her brother pushed the door open farther, in a move to leave. She blinked, surprised, gaping at the sight of a young man in a bed, his black curls a halo tossed about his head, resting on a white pillow. His face was pale and wane, and he was too far away for her to see the color of his eyes, but it was not the shock of seeing a boy about her age, hiding away in a bed in a locked area of the house, but the animal that was curled atop the foot of the bed, staring straight at her.

_The wolf with red eyes._

She blinked, covering her mouth with her hand, hoping she did not make a sound. Rhaegar turned his head slightly, distracted. He frowned, but shook his head, returning attention to the room. She chewed her lip, dropping her hand to try to memorize every single feature of the young man’s face, to place him in the paintings around the house or the books that she read to Aemon. She had never seen someone so pale—and she was from Valyria where almost crystalline features were lauded and paraded about. Yet his lips were full and pink, his dark hair curling to the collar of the white shirt he wore. His hands were strong, despite his seemingly weak state, and gripped the quilt covering him.

Against the wall beside the bedside table were two wooden crutches, with strange bands around the handles. She could barely make out a painting on the wall, but whatever it contained in its images, it had Rhaegar entranced, his gaze now focusing on the wall where it hung than on the man. “Every day you look more like her,” he murmured.

The man snorted, wincing and trying to get comfortable in the bed. “Like it fucking matters, stuck in here.”

“Jon, language.”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“I do.”

The young man— _Jon_ —glowered at Rhaegar. “You will not even let me meet our newest resident.”

_Newest resident?_ Dany wondered if that was a reference to her. It had to be, but she was hardly new, she had been here for months. “You need rest,” Rhaegar said, finality in his clipped words. He went over to the bed, fussing about, she could not see what he was doing. “Ring for me please, if you need anything.”

“Of course, gods forbid I try to do something myself.”

“Jon.”

“Say goodnight to Ghost.”

Rhaegar chuckled. Dany’s eyes bugged out at the strange sound. “Very well then. Good night Ghost.”

“Ghost says fuck off.”

Exasperation blew from Rhaegar’s nostrils in a huff. “Jon, I swear to the gods…”

“Oh I thought you didn’t believe in gods?” Whoever this Jon was, he seemed to enjoy driving Rhaegar a bit mad. He laughed, rather harshly, and then cried out in pain. “Fuck! It’s happening again.”

“Don’t fight it.”

Whatever was happening, she could not hear or see, because she had to get out of there before Rhaegar left and caught her lurking in the forbidden hallways. She thought she saw the wolf— _Ghost?_ —staring at her, but maybe that was her imagination. She slipped down the halls and then took off at a run, flying into her bedroom and closing the door, turning the lock to be safe.

“Oh fuck,” she cursed, hands diving into her hair, knocking free the hat that she’d forgotten was on her head. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, braids askew. She paced back and forth through her chambers, into the accompanying privy room and the small sitting area before the hearth. She tapped her hands on her thighs, crossed and uncrossed her arms, and tried to make sense of all she had uncovered that evening.

Except that was the thing, wasn’t it? She could not make sense of it, because there was no sense to be had. No logical explanation for a massive white wolf to lead her through the forest to a walled off part of the wood or for her brother to be hiding a _fucking man_ in the forbidden wing. There was all the questions that stemmed from those revelations, but she could not stop thinking about the young man, the _Jon._

Who was he? What was his relation to Rhaegar? What was his relation to _her_? What had happened to keep him confined to bed? What was wrong with him? Was he ill? Injured? Who was the wolf?

She shed her coat, her dress, and her stockings. She managed to get back into her woolen nightdress, binding herself back into her blankets, and sit on the floor in front of the fire, too exhausted to even go to her bed. Too cold as well, finally feeling the chill of the night seep into her skin now that she was not excitable and running about. Her teeth chattered, arms tight on her chest, staring into the fire.

And not long after did the wolf howl again.

The next morning she could not venture outside, not with any semblance of reason. It was _pouring_ rain, as if the gods had a river and never-ending train of buckets just dumping it straight on them. She groaned, waking on the floor and once again, cold and frustrated. Missy arrived, knocking lightly on the door and poking her head in, smiling warmly, in contrast to the chill. “Good morning! Shall I help you dress?”

“Sure,” she yawned, stumbling over to the wardrobe. Her eyes widened on the sight of her dress from the evening, kneeling to swipe it up off the floor, moving to hide it away. Her cheeks tinged pink, Missy’s eyebrows lifting and lips pursing in a poorly constrained smile. “Um…sorry I was just…”

“Ah…” Missy cleared her throat, lifting her boots off the floor, holding them up, smirking. “I took the liberty of cleaning these when I found them in the guest room down the hall.” She cocked her head, dark eyes dancing curiously. “Care to explain how they got there my lady?”

_Fuck! My boots!_ Dany stared at the now shining brown leather, wondering how to stumble her way from this. She ran her tongue over her teeth, locked eyes on Missy. Except Missy was not angry. She was amused, in fact. She sighed. Could be worse, it could have been Rhaegar who found them. “I suppose I must explain,” she said, taking the boots and bringing them over to the wardrobe. She stashed everything away, wondering how far to go with Missy.

_Surely she must know there is a young man about twenty-years old living in the house? Hidden away in the rooms that they have to clean, right?_ She hesitated; Gilly had been the one to lie about not knowing Lyanna, Rhaegar’s second wife. Missy had made no such lie, had admitted freely to her that she arrived after Lyanna had passed away. A mysterious passing, it seemed. She closed the wardrobe door, fiddling with the silver knob. “Um…I was wondering if you might tell me…I was well…” she sighed hard, spinning and pressing her back against the doors, fingers tight on the sides of the wardrobe. “Well I will admit. I was outside. I wanted to find the wolf I keep seeing.”

Missy did not look up from fussing with the bed linens. She tugged on the sheets, tucking them under the mattress, only a sound of “Hmm” made. Dany pressed on, considering it a bit of a win if the other woman did not tell her to stop speaking. “I do not like being considered mad, my father was locked up for his mental illness. My brother was on his way there when he died in Pentos. I wanted to make sure I also did not have the illness like them. Seeing things that aren’t there.” She paused. Pushed back from the furniture, her feet silent on the carpet, walking towards the bed. Missy had quickened her pace of making the bed. “The wolf was real. I saw it, I touched it. Who is he?”

The maid stopped her movements, turning and providing Dany a look she had not seen before. Missy was always very kind, very sweet, and sometimes even shy. Except now she had a steeliness to her dark gaze that warned Dany off of ever doing anything to upset this woman, for surely her wrath would be terrifying. “I told you that Rhaegar found me in Essos after Lady Lyanna died,” she said. She placed her hand on her hip, her apron shifting with the movement. “I never knew her, but I heard talk from the previous servants here. He made sure to remove them, after she passed, he did not like hearing them speak of her memory, you see.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I don’t know if you do, Dany.” Missy smiled sadly. “He was worse than he is now. A shell. You see she was always…vibrant. There are no portraits of her in the house because he cannot bear to look at them, to see her image.” She sighed. “She died in the godswood, a garden of sorts.” Her fingers pulled on the duvet; eyes downcast. Her voice dropped further. “He found her there, lying in the grass, and they say that all the smiles in the North died that day. Nothing could stop Rhaegar Targaryen’s sadness at losing the love of his life. He left not long after they buried her, in the crypts of her family’s home in Winterfell. He could not bear the garden any longer, it made her so happy, that he shut the door and buried the key.”

_Buried the key?_

She turned her fingers in front of her stomach, before clenching them together tightly. “Where would he bury the key?” she murmured, the wheels in her mind turning, wondering how to enter the walled-off garden. The wolf led her there. The wolf in the young man’s room. _Jon._

Missy folded up the blanket tossed over the foot of the bed, murmuring. “I do not know, but I am sure that only he could find it, if he ever wanted.” She glanced sideways again. Her voice steeled once more. “It would do well to keep the past hidden, Dany. Especially if Rhaegar wants to keep it there.”

_Yes, but the past can only be hidden if it wants to, and clearly it does not want to._ The wolf wanted her to find it. She locked in on that; she wanted to find this place. This garden that meant so much to Lady Lyanna, Rhaegar’s great love. She took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “And the wolf?” she wondered. Her head cocked. _How much did Missy know?_

Missy’s eyes dropped again. Her cheeks darkened. _She is a terrible liar._ “I…I do not…”

“Missy, please.”

The maid blew out a hard breath, shaking her head and chuckling. “Dany, you are very difficult to say no to!”

Dany smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

Missy reached her hand over, squeezing her folded hands gently, eyes gentle once more, if possible, they were sadder. “The wolf belongs to the gods, he wanders. He was a gift from Lady Lyanna. He misses her terribly. Perhaps that is why he brought you to her garden.”

Her tongue ran over her teeth, eyebrows arching once more. “And the man?”

Missy’s eyes widened. “Man?”

“In the west wing?” Dany let it sit, Missy’s eyes wide and her mouth falling open slightly. She cocked her head, stepping closer. “Who is he Missy? Why does Rhaegar hide him? Is he ill?”

“I…I don’t…” Missy stammered, too surprised to answer, and gasped loudly when the door opened, Gilly appearing. She blinked hard, dropping her hand from Dany’s. “Gilly! Dany was just saying how she wanted to go out for a ride later, but I cannot seem to find her riding coat in the laundry.”

Gilly pursed her lips, her forehead puckering in a frown. “Hmm, I thought it had returned. I will double check.” She glanced at Dany, smiling again. “My husband Sam is here; he was wondering if you wanted to sit with him and Maester Aemon while he drafted some letters for him. He brought Little Sam.”

The small child that was Gilly’s son was always a delight on dreary rainy days. Dany nodded, accepting the offer. “I will dress and be there after I break my fast. Thank you, Gilly.”

“Of course.” She pulled the door closed without a second thought. It was unfortunately, too late, because Missy was already grabbing things and rushing out before Dany could press her further on the notion of the man. She scowled, irritated, but she would just push harder and find out more.

A few hours later the rain stopped and even though it was muddy, she pulled her boots on and took out Little Sam, thinking maybe she could convince him to go wandering in the woods with her, to find the walled garden. Except the three-year old was uninterested, preferring to throw rocks into the rain-filled fountain. It began to drizzle again when it was time for his nap, and she could not think of another excuse to use to go back outside.

She kept her lips closed when supper came around, nodding and saying nothing, wondering how Rhaegar could sit there and pretend like he was not keeping another _human being_ hostage in the house. Hostage might have been a strong term, but another human at least.

That night she sat in the window, staring outside, and waiting. Soon enough, she saw him, the white wolf, padding out of one of the doors on the side of the manor, heading to the woods. She pressed hard on the windows, straining to see, except this time she did not look at the wolf; she focused on the west wing of the house, trying to see through the rain to any part of the wing that had a light. It took a few minutes, but she found it. Just barely.

It was a flicker; the curtains not pulled all the way. She lifted her window, as best as she could, squinting at the room. She counted it up—second floor, five windows in from the main house. That was about the same location of the room she’d seen Rhaegar in, where the man lived. She tried to see further but couldn’t.

Until the curtains flicked back again.

She yelped, falling backwards, surprised at the movement. The curtains moved back, more light appearing in the window, stark against the black of night. She wished she had a spyglass or something to use to see further, but this was still something. “Show yourself,” she murmured, wondering if he was looking at her too. She glanced around and spotted her hand mirror, grabbing it from her nightstand. She took the candle, holding it in the windowsill and then placed the mirror behind it, watching the light reflect off the mirror, moving it slightly, directly to the window.

There was nothing, no response. She sighed; perhaps he couldn’t see her. She moved the mirror, turning slightly, figuring she might as well just go back to sleep. Except she blinked, something catching her eye. She glanced over her shoulder, mouth falling, and staring.

A light flashed back at her from the room.

_He sees me._

She giggled, taking the candle and mirror again; she had no idea how to communicate with him, but she wanted to see…perhaps there was something…she moved the light again, and he replied back with a longer flash. She was going to reply back, when the curtains pulled back quickly. She frowned, and then she saw it.

Rhaegar.

He wasn’t looking up; he seemed to be in his own world, walking back from the stables. His arms were around him, still in his black jacket, tie, and breeches as he usually wore. He stopped about halfway up the path to the house and she hid behind the curtain, watching him carefully, wondering just what exactly he was doing.

He looked up at the house and then to the wood. And then she watched her sullen, silent brother sink onto one of the stone benches and bury his face into his hands, and undeniably begin to sob.

_Rhaegar_ , she thought, moving slightly on the seat. He was in pain. So much pain. She hesitated; she wanted to help him, to go to him. To tell him she was sad too. They had lost their family, their homeland. She closed her eyes tight, pushing back and going to her bed.

_Why should she go to him when he seemed to not even bother that she might also feel the same?_

Dany climbed into the bed, blowing out the candle, and settled into her pillows. She turned to her side, away from the window, her heart beating fast in her chest, anticipation burning in her throat. She was going to find that young man tomorrow night. She would talk to him.

_Jon._

It was dangerous, she suspected Rhaegar did not sleep at all, there were still other servants that could come calling. Or even Aemon might need someone to help him in the night, Davos or Grey sometimes came from their rooms near the stables when he needed to be carried. She could be walking into something entirely dangerous. Suppose this man was not ill or injured, but was being kept away for his safety? Or _her_ safety? Maybe he was mad like Viserys.

Except he hadn’t seen mad. He had just seemed…mad as in _angry._ She could understand that certainly, if he was locked away in the drafty dreary manor, unable to even go outside. Or to leave his bed. She went stir-crazy when it rained days and she could not even go onto the terrace, let alone not leave the house.

Once everyone had retired to bed, she gave it about two hours, figuring that might be enough time for at least Rhaegar to fall into a doze, if he did not actually truly sleep. She climbed from bed, pulling on one of her thick robes over her nightgown, pushing her feet into thick woolen socks she had knit herself. She hated dainty little slippers; they did nothing to keep her feet warm.

With her braid slung over her shoulder, she ignored the candle sitting by the table at the door, her eyes taking some time to adjust to the darkness, since she couldn’t chance someone seeing the candlelight from under the crack of their doorway. She was grateful the moon, while no longer full, was still waning and at least some of it was providing light through a few of the windows that did not have curtains drawn. She crept slowly down the hall, only on her toes, moving painfully slowly.

It was so quiet, she feared her heartbeat would alert someone to her presence, for it was so loud she could hear it in her ears and chest and even in her feet, if possible. The west wing seemed to be miles away, down the corridor, around the corner, and up the flight of stairs. She held her breath, her lungs straining, until she got beyond Rhaegar’s rooms, finally exhaling at the landing.

_Almost there._

She kept against the wall, careful on the steps because she no longer had the moon to guide her way. It was so dark, but she remembered from the other evening it was the room two in from the landing. She slipped beyond the top step, where she had lurked before. “Almost there,” she whispered, encouraging herself. There was no turning back now. She was Visenya or Rhaenys, conquering and claiming, exploring this new world. Well, new to her.

The door was just beyond her reach; all she had to do was reach and turn the knob…

And the door opened.

The sudden light from the room flooding her widened pupils had her slamming her eyes shut to adjust again, her heart stopping, and her feet freezing under her. She did not hear anyone yelling; no Rhaegar grabbing her arm and dragging her to her room. She slowly opened her eyes, her hand touching the door, stepping in over the threshold. She looked down and saw him.

The wolf.

“Did you open the door?” she blurted, surprised.

“Aye, he does things like that.”

Dany whipped her head up, her braid flying over her shoulder. She gaped, at the speaker of the voice. It was the young man. _Jon._ Except he was not in the bed, he was sitting in a wingback chair by the fire. He wore a black robe, his dark curls pulled from his face like how Rhaegar kept his hair. A thick blanket was over his knees and she saw the crutches were next to him. He had been reading, the book now turned over on the table beside him.

She blinked hard again, voice cracking. “Who are you?”

He smiled; it did not meet his eyes, which were sad. “I could ask that question of you.”

_I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name…_ She could think of how she wanted to reply, except she blurted out the answer, completely taken aback by this man. “Dany. I’m Dany.”

“Hello Dany, I’m Jon.” He smirked, lifting his hand to give her a wave, chuckling. “So you’re Rhaegar’s little sister, right?”

“Yes.” She closed the door behind her, following the wolf into the room. It gave her the opportunity to take it in; it was quite spacious, with a huge sitting area by the fire and the bed pushed against one of the walls, between two windows. There was a table that was littered with bottles and vials, she imagined of various medications. She stopped, suddenly taken aback by the painting on the wall, next to the bed. “Oh.”

The woman in the large frame that took up most of the wall was probably the most beautiful woman she had seen, other than her mother. Dark curls tumbled over her shoulder, she was smiling, a luminous grin, gray eyes dancing in the forever image of her sitting on a blanket, before a white tree with blood-red leaves, a dark gray wolf at her feet and horse standing beside her. She stepped towards the painting, drawn to the woman; her eyes…they were mesmerizing, she thought, mouth falling open. The artist had captured her joy, her pure happiness.

She broke away from the painting, turning to look back at Jon, who was smiling, rather sad. She cocked her head. _His eyes._

They were the exact same gray, shape, and shade as the woman in the painting.

“That’s Lyanna.” Jon paused. “My mother.”

_Mother._

She almost fell to the floor, too shocked to stand, her hand reaching to grip at one of the other chairs beside him. “Moth…mother?” she stammered. She didn’t understand. _How?_ Her voice cracked, putting together what she had seen the previous evening. Rhaegar’s insistence she stay away from the room. The way Missy and Gilly and everyone stayed quiet. Even Aemon. _But why?_ She frowned, everything dawning on her. “So that means Rhaegar…”

Jon smirked, rather darkly, his gray eyes turning almost black. “Ah, I see Father has been keeping secrets again. He tends to do that, lest his broken heart break even further.” He offered his hand, cocking his head and grinning. “Well Dany, I suppose if you are Rhaegar’s little sister and Rhaegar is my father, then I guess that makes you my aunt.”

Dany closed her eyes, shivering. “I guess so,” she croaked.

He swept his hand to the other chair. “Sit down, we have some catching up to do.” He reached for the top of the blanket, curling his fingers into it. “First things first, you should probably see why Rhaegar keeps me hidden.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Oh yes, a terrible story of heartbreak and violence, but it’s quite boring actually.” He gestured again and then nodded to the wolf, voice dropping. “Ghost, keep watch.”

To more shock, although she did not know why anything was surprising her anymore, the wolf listened, turning away from them both and going to the door, somehow opening it and allowing it to close behind him. _Oh my,_ she thought. She really did need to sit down. She plunked into the opposite armchair, hands in her lap, and finally lifted her gaze to meet his again.

And he moved the blanket, sighing hard. “Well, I suppose I should begin by saying that Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna had a baby when they got married, something he does not like to share with the rest of the world.” He smirked, his hand going to prop up his head, chuckling and jerking his thumb backwards to his chest. “That would be me.”

“I gather,” she murmured.

“Hmm, well before we get into my sorry tale, let’s learn about yours.” He picked up a glass of wine that was sitting on the table beside him, lifting it to his lips, which curled rather ominously into a smile behind the rim of the glass. A dark eyebrow lifted, his voice dropping. “Since it seems Father not only keeps me secret, but you as well. I know nothing of you, _Dany._ So tell me, how do you come to be here at Dragonstone Manor?”

Dany laughed, unable to do anything else. It seemed her exploring had finally gotten her somewhere.

She just wasn’t sure if she was in over her head now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dany learns more about Jon; Jon gives Dany a hint about the key's location.


	3. a door revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany learns about Jon; more secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely reviews! I hope that the mysteries aren't too much, some will be revealed a little more. And Jon isn't totally 'Bran' in this, you'll see ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49616173787/in/dateposted-public/)

The fire crackled merrily in the grate before her, quite a contrast to the dark tones of the room where Dany found herself, before this man who claimed to be her nephew, the son of Rhaegar, unknown to her, to her mother…to the world, it would seem. To the world beyond the walls of the manor, at least. She had no idea what to make of any of this. Her mind felt fuzzy on the edges, as if she had a bad cold of sorts. The rational side of her brain understood that this man who resembled the woman in the painting so clearly was undoubtably the child of the late Lady Lyanna Stark. It was his father’s heritage that she struggled to reconcile, as it seemed he had no bit of Rhaegar within him at all.

Dark curls pulled in a queue, or rather, a messy knot at the nape of his neck escaped around his temples. He had a thin face, a clipped beard covering most his jaw, which she could tell was rather strong. His eyes though…she could drown in them, if she were being honest with herself. Dany used to be a girl prone to flights of fancy—imagining she was a princess atop a dragon, a warrior conquering the realm, or a queen ruling the world—although she had never been prone to imagining that she was married with a king, a prince, or another male suitor. Except the few times she did allow herself to dream of that future, she only ever saw a shifting shadow.

The shadow might have had dark hair—it was uncommon in most Valyrians unless they had ancestry from Ghiscar—or perhaps even dark eyes, but she never knew. The few nights where she would lay awake, twisting in her sheets, or perhaps stuck in a pleasurable dream, her thighs pressed together to stem the pressure that threatened to kill her, she imagined this shadow lover.

And the gray eyes that stared at her over the short distance between their chairs, hard as a steel blade, with a faint ring of indigo around the pupil, she realized there was no denying this man was the spawn of her brother—they had the same morose look about them, the same sag to their shoulders, and the same glint of pain. These were also the gray eyes of her shadow lover, she thought, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment. Not because he was her nephew, no, her mother had warned her that the marriage customs of Valyria were not wholly uncommon in Westeros—cousins intermarried and occasionally an uncle and niece or aunt and nephew—but no marriage between siblings or between father and child or mother and child. Sometimes Valyrians did this, Rhaella explained, to keep the bloodlines pure.

She had always thought hse would marry Viserys, until Aerys went mad and had to be confined. Rhaella had decided that her daughter would marry no one until she wanted to marry. Viserys had been betrothed to a Dornish prince’s daughter when he had been ten years, but she never heard talk of it when he grew, thinking perhaps the contract fell through.

 _Why are you thinking of marriage, you silly dragon?_ she chastised herself, closing her eyes and shivering. She reached to push her fingers at her forehead, before tossing her braid back over her shoulder, turning to focus on this strange man again. “How old are you?” she demanded. She tugged her shawl tighter around her, burying her feet under her knees, curling into herself for a sense of protection.

The fire hissed, a few of the logs popping. He leaned over and picked up a poker; she realized that he was sitting very close to the fire and the poker seemed a bit longer than most fireplace tools. He poked at the logs, sending sparks up, orange hot and popping. She stared as he one-handed set the poker down and then picked up an iron claw, lifting a log and dropping it atop the others in the grate. She blinked, his movements practiced and the muscles in his upper arms bunching beneath the black robe he wore over what she imagined was a nightshirt.

He sighed, setting the tools back to the edge of the hearth, before he turned his attention to her again. Those eyes were so unsettling, she thought, shivering. “Still cold?” he asked.

“It’s freezing here.”

“Aye, that it is.” He scratched at his jaw, rubbing his beard, pondering. “I am twenty years. And you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Hmm, seems Rhaegar really kept secrets.”

“Seems,” she snapped. She fisted her shawl in her lap. She was furious with Rhaegar. She grit her teeth. “Did my mother know about you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know much of what anyone knows about me.”

“Do you ever leave this room?”

He shrugged, staring into the fire. He shifted, pain flickering on his pale features. “In a way,” he murmured, before settling back into the chair. He pulled at the blanket on his knees, rolling his eyes towards her, smirking. “Rhaegar doesn’t like me to go outside. Fears I’ll catch cold. Die of a pox. Or chill. Like a fucking child.”

“So you have been locked in this house your entire life? For twenty years?” she snapped. She was furious on his behalf. She rustled a bit in her seat, like an angry hen, clucking. “My fucking brother, honestly.”

A dark eyebrow lifted, amused. “And I thought my language was bad.”

“How did you learn such foul language locked in here?”

“Hmm, I have some people who visit. Sworn to secrecy of course,” he said. He sighed, hitting his head against the back of the chair, staring into the fire. His voice went sad again, haunting, like Rhaegar’s. “I haven’t been in here my whole life. Just the last twelve years.”

_Twelve years!?_

She opened her mouth, to ask what happened, when he pulled the blanket off his knees. She stared, at his legs, which were in black trousers. They were thinner than his frame would suggest and there was a metal brace around one of his knees. His feet turned in one direction. He sighed, gesturing to them, spitting in anger. “I was eight. Fell from a tree…and broke my back.”

“And you can no longer walk?” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine. The fact that sometimes she was cooped up in this house with no way to escape killed her, but at least she could roam the halls. It seemed he could not even leave his bedroom. She shook her head, frowning. “I do not understand. You can have a chair; you can go out into the world. Plenty of people do. Why does Rhaegar feel such shame?”

“Because I look like her.”

He nodded to the painting. The one of Lyanna. It was true, of course, she thought, getting up from the chair and going over to study the painting in greater detail. The woman was gorgeous; they all seemed to say she was. Even Rhaella, although she had never met her. None of them had. Rhaella had only met her two grandchildren once; the journey from Valyria to Westeros was an arduous one, as well as expensive. It could only be done during certain times of the year. She reached to touch her fingers to the hollow of her throat, her heart hurting for her beloved mother, who died never knowing there was another out there, another grandchild.

She hated Rhaegar.

She wanted to strangle him, to punch him, kick him, and burn him alive for what he’d done. “Our mother had no idea,” she murmured, continuing to take in the painting of Lyanna. The way the artist had painted the rays of sun over her pale face, eyes luminous, her mouth open in a laugh. She could almost hear it; a throaty laugh, of a woman who could hold her own with men and ride horses like a seasoned warrior. Her fingers lifted, to touch the wolf painted at her side. “Did Rhaegar tell you of us?”

“No, but those did.”

The flick of his hand towards a massive bookcase told her that he was probably as well-read as Uncle Aemon. She clicked her tongue, lifting her face to look at the woman again. “Uncle Aemon knows you.”

“Aye.”

“They all do. Except me.”

Jon snorted. “Now you know.”

She moved away from the painting, walking over to sit beside him again. She shook her head, studying his legs. “I don’t understand. He is ashamed of you? Because you broke your back? Because you look like your mother? Neither of those things are your fault. Rhaegar is a horrible monster for shaming you like that.”

He smiled, amused again. “You do not know the whole story, yet you defend me, a stranger, from your brother?”

“He is hardly a brother. He never speaks to me. Did not even come to collect me in White Harbor.”

“Sounds like Rhaegar.”

They had a kindred hatred for their brother and father, she thought with a tiny smile, her shawl tight on her shoulders, bundling into it tighter. She wrapped her arms around her knees, quiet. “Your wolf led me to the garden. Was that you? Did you command him?”

Jon tapped his fingers to his lips, eyes darkening, mysterious. “In a way,” he murmured.

“Rhaegar’s heart is broken, true, but to just hide you…to hide your mother…” She did not understand it. Didn’t understand the secrets, the need for them. It hurt her. Hurt that her brother could not tell her that there was someone her age living under the same roof, as lonely as she was these last six months, with only the household staff and her elderly uncle to keep her company. She could have been here, with him, she thought, scowling. She did not understand any of it.

The man shifted again, pain in his face. He clenched and unclenched his fist on the armrest of the chair, voice tight. “He hates me, that’s part of the reason,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to hers, face strained. “You are here now, because of what happened in Valyria?”

 _The destruction._ She nodded, eyes closing. “Yes.”

“And Viserys…”

“Gone.” Clearly Rhaegar had not bothered to tell his own child of the losses the family had incurred the past couple of years. She fisted her hands in her lap, staring at the fire. She sighed, hard, shoulders slumping. “The Doom destroyed everything and everyone. It seems that I am the last of the Targaryens.”

He cocked his head, a tiny smile pulling on his lips. “Hmm,” he murmured. He reached for the wine glass at his side again, quiet. “Seems we both are, Dany.”

She lifted her head, watching him. This stranger to her was more open and talkative with her than anyone had been in six months at this manor. She wanted more from him. More answers, more questions, they fought in her mind for supremacy. She glanced at his legs again, blurting out. “You fell from a tree, you said?”

“Hmm.”

 _Lyanna died in the garden_. That was what Missy had told her. Or so they said. She glanced at the painting again, before meeting his gaze. The sadness in her eyes told her all she needed, she thought, putting together the pieces in her mind. She murmured. “You fell from a tree, broke your back, but is there more to the story?”

“There always is,” he said.

Dany stood again, unable to sit still, walking to the window, peering out at the direction of her room. From this angle of the house she could see the wood far clearer. _Perhaps this was another reason why I am not to come here_ , she thought, as she could see the thicket of trees and suddenly, she shifted, the moon glowing off a peculiar colored patch in the expanse of the dark greens and blacks of the pines and towering oaks. “Are those leaves…”

“Red, aye.”

 _Red leaves?_ Her head snapped to the painting, of Lyanna sitting before a tree with white trunk and… _red leaves._ She frowned, unfamiliar with such a type of tree. Then again, it was not like she was a botanist, but she had taken to reading some strange books, when Aemon chattered on about the history of Westeros or how to wrap a broken arm. “I have never seen such leaves before,” she murmured.

“Tis’ a weirwood.”

 _Weirwood._ It reminded her of the wolf that had led her through the forest to the secret garden. The white fur and red eyes. She turned back around, to stand before him, curious. “Do you know why the garden is walled off? Why did your wolf take met here? They say there is a hidden key, but…”

“Rhaegar locked the garden and threw away the key because of what happened there.”

She was about to ask what happened, when suddenly the wolf appeared, swishing silently through the door. He came over to his master, who set his hand atop the wolf’s head, eyes closing. A second passed and his eyelids sprang open, lifting quickly to hers, whispering. “You have to leave. Rhaegar’s awake.” He nodded to the window. “He’s on his nightly prowls.”

 _No! It was too soon!_ She wanted to know more. Wanted to speak more to this strange being that lived in the same house as her. To find out what happened to him. To find the key to the secret garden. It had become her obsession. The only thing she wanted now out of this hideous place.

Except none of that would happen if Rhaegar had her locked up like he had his son. She nodded and moved towards the door, but paused, looking back at him. Pain still flickered over his pale face, his gray eyes earnest and curious. He smiled, quick, although it did not meet his eyes. “Keep to the left, skip the second to last step, it creaks.” He smirked. “You learn a lot about noises in this place when all you do is sit here.”

“I will see you again?” she asked; why was she even asking, she wondered, for she planned on running up here the next chance she got.

He nodded. “I should hope so, I have plenty of questions for you Daenerys Targaryen.”

“When?”

“After midday they leave me alone to sleep.” He rolled his eyes. “Come then. Rhaegar will be gone for the next month or so, he has to go pay his dues to my uncle at Winterfell.”

 _The Duke of Winterfell_ , she remembered, the brother of Lady Lyanna. It was Stark land where they lived, of course. She nodded; at least it would give her some peace for a few weeks, not having to look at her brother, to snap and demand explanations for his behavior. “Very well.” She smiled, throwing the grin over her shoulder. “It was nice to meet you Jon.”

He cocked his head, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “And you Daenerys,” he murmured, sipping at his wine.

The wolf left with her—Ghost—walking with her to her room. She glanced down at him, before she stepped into her chambers, frowning briefly at the intensity of the dog’s eyes. It was almost human. It had been in the forest too. “What are you?” she whispered, touching his head.

He licked her hand and darted off, a specter in the corridor, disappearing up the stairs. She watched him depart, frowning, before a creak somewhere down the hall and the cough of someone down in the foyer had her hurrying behind her door, closing it and flicking the lock. She released the breath she had been holding, turning and slumping down to the floor, arm over her shoulder.

It wasn’t until she had gotten into bed that she realized she had left her shawl in the room with Jon. She gasped, climbing out quickly and fell to the window, her mirror and candle still at the beside. She turned, lifting it up and flicked it to the west wing. A moment later, it flicked back. She squinted, seeing the curtains pulled back, and smiled, seeing something dangling from the window rung.

_Her shawl._

The morning could not have gone slower.

She wolfed down her breakfast, Uncle Aemon chuckling as she shoved a jam-covered piece of toast into her mouth. “I hear you chew as if you are a starved animal,” he commented, as Gilly took his plate from in front of him. He smiled; his whitened eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Dare I ask why you are in a hurry?”

“To go riding, it is a beautiful day,” she lied. She felt bad for lying to him, but Aemon had kept Jon a secret as much as Rhaegar. She could not understand it, none of it, and hoped soon to speak to him about it. Depending on what Jon said during their next conversation of course. She was not entirely lying about the day though. The sun had actually come out, the morning dew on the grass resembling a mirror as it shined the sunlight back to them. She wanted to get into the woods as quickly as she could, to search for the key.

Aemon nodded. “Ah, yes, I can feel the sun, the change in the weather upon us.” He patted his knee. “Does my old bones good, perhaps I will have Samwell bring me to the terrace for luncheon.”

“Yes.”

“You know Rhaegar has left for Winterfell this morning, I am sorry dear child, he did not see you off.” He frowned, his wizened brow wrinkling further. “It is a shame; he allows his grief and pain to taint the few relationships he has left on this world.”

She set her teacup into the saucer. That was a bit of an understatement, she believed. The pain with which Rhaegar seemed to feel things permeated into everyone around him, into the very walls of the manor he prowled. It was apparent to her in the brief interaction she had had with Jon. _His son. My nephew_. Dany was not certain how much she could divulge to Uncle Aemon, remembering that first night, when she mentioned the wolf howl and the sight of Ghost on the moor, the way he hummed it away as Rhaegar snapped for her to not worry of such things.

Except it was Uncle Aemon, he was nearing his five- and hundred-years name day and surely, he would have to think about the rest of his family? The ones that would be left behind. That included Jon, hidden away in the drafty manor for reasons unknown. She nudged the teacup with her fingertip, watching the roses painted daintily on the edge of the china glimmer. “Uncle Aemon, may I ask a question?”

“Of course child.” He chuckled. “I hope I have an answer.”

“I am sure you will,” she laughed. She paused. Formed the question in her mind, twisted over the words. She picked up her cup again, rather airily asking: “Did Lyanna and Rhaegar have any children?”

Aemon’s eyes were milky white with blindness, but that did not mean she couldn’t see emotion in them. If anything, emotion played easily across his wizened features, and he was more likely to show his anger, sadness, or curiosity than the average person, who could just shutter their eyes. Eyes were windows, Aemon told her once, and you can see well through them to the very nature of a person’s soul. She studied them now, those milky irises and the smile twisting on his lips. He reached his hand out, curled and frail, touching his teacup.

She watched him lift it and sip, before he set it gently down, his eyes still lifted to the ceiling, and then he smiled. Her heart fluttered; _that was a good sign, yes?_ “You ask me this for what reason, child?” he asked.

“Because I just wonder, he grieves so painfully, like a father who lost a child as well as a wife,” she said. It was something she was surprised she was able to come up with so quickly. She swallowed hard. “I was just wondering.”

Aemon nodded, chin lowering. He closed his eyes and sighed, hands folding in his lap. “There is a lot in our family, dear Daenerys, and so much to discuss that I feel now is not an appropriate time. Soon, I will speak to you.” He opened his eyes again, nodding firmer this time, voice stronger. “Yes, soon we shall speak of it.”

“That is not an answer, Uncle Aemon.”

“It seems you may know the answer.”

“Answer to what?”

They both turned their heads to the cheery sound of Samwell Tarly, Aemon’s assistant, who appeared in the doorway, holding a bunch of books under his arm. He beamed, nodding to her and bowing slightly. “Lady Daenerys, beautiful morning is it not? Sun shining, birds are chirping, I feel spring is around the corner.”

“Springtime is a time of renewal and fresh starts, it seems appropriate time for you Daenerys,” Aemon said. He chuckled, softly speaking, so she could hear, under the sound of Sam as he told Aemon of the books, he had brought with him from the village. “A new era to our family, perhaps.”

 _He knows I know._ Dany couldn’t explain it, but she knew that with the twinkle in Aemon’s eyes and the smile on his lips, he knew that she knew about Jon. He was smart and had lived long enough, surely, he would know that she’d figure it out. She nodded, smiling and lifting her gaze to Sam, who had walked over with some of the books. “For you,” he said, pressing a couple to her. “You asked me about dragons last time, yes?”

“Oh!” She accepted the books from him, grinning. “Thank you.” She pursed her lips and flicked through some of them, before glancing up. “I was wondering if it is not too much trouble, perhaps you could pick up some books for me when you return about…Northern flora.”

Sam blinked. “Northern flora?” he asked.

“I did not know you were interested in botany or flora, Daenerys,” Aemon said.

“Just curious.” _About white trees with red leaves._ She smiled. “I live here now, perhaps I should learn what I can about the trees and the plants of the region, for when I go out and explore. I’d like to know what I am picking up and touching or painting and drawing.” She stood, setting her napkin down, her fingers trembling, eager to get started. “I shall leave you to your studies.”

Aemon reached his hand out, catching her wrist in his grip. “Do stay with us for a time, Daenerys. Samwell, help me to the conservatory, we shall sit in the sunlight this morning.”

Dany smiled, tight, wondering if he was doing this on purpose. _Of course he is, he must know._ She nodded. “Alright. Let’s go, shall we?”

The moment she could escape, she did, leaving Aemon with Sam. After reading through several of her dragon stories, Aemon decided that he wanted Sam to help him transcribe some things, which she would just be sitting around for. He was writing a tome, he decided, outlining his life's work and experiences. She thought such a book would be volumes long and looked forward to hearing it and reading it, but right now, her focus was on the garden. _On the key._

Missy knew what she was up to, when she arrived in the kitchens wearing her trousers and her large hiking boots. She had on her wool hat and scarf, shoving her fingers into gloves, and not looking at either Missy or Gilly. "I will be out on a walk," she said.

"Do you want me to get Davos to saddle up Tessarion?" Grey asked, from where he was seated at the table having his lunch. He jumped immediately to assist, but she waved him off.

"No, thank you, I think I will just walk."

Missy frowned. "Alright."

"I'll be back soon," she said, hoping she sounded convincing. She hurried out of the kitchens and into the stables, rummaging through tools in the tack room. She had no idea where Grey kept the gardening equipment; it would be odd she supposed for her to suddenly ask, but she thought that a shoe pick might do for churning up the dirt, if she needed to dig. She shoved it into the pocket of her coat, disappearing out the side door, waving at Tessarion, who knickered, annoyed that she was not taking the mare out.

The leaves and tangled brambles and brush were wet when she tromped through, hoping she was following the right path. She wondered where Ghost was, if he sat with Jon all day until the night came and then ventured onto his evening strolls. _Such an odd wolf_ , she thought, _it is like he can read my mind and understand words._ She hoped that she could see Jon that evening, especially now that she did not need to worry about Rhaegar.

The thorns of a large bush scratched at her exposed wrists when she pushed it by, stepping into the bit of clearing around the walled garden. "I'm here," she murmured, lifting her face. In the sunlight, in the daytime, she could see the red of the leaves of whatever tree lay beyond the stone walls. She approached, trembling, every nerve ending alight as she placed her hands on the mossy wall, pressing lightly and peering up. The walls must have been about ten feet high, she supposed, scanning to see if there was a way for her to climb up. She was a fair climber, but by no means a good one. There were no trees she could tell that were close enough or sturdy enough, to bring her over the ledge of the wall.

And then she was not sure what she would find on the opposite side. Best not to risk it, she thought. She took a deep breath, removing the shoe pick, using it to help pull at some of the vines. They were so tight, tangled within the mortar of the stone itself. Her fingers struggled in her gloves, feeling cold, but she took them off anyway, easier to move around. She followed the vines to the door and began to fight with them, tugging and pulling.

"Ah!" she yelped, holding her hands up as a series of dead vines fell on her. Dirt and dried leaves littered her hair, knocking off her hat. She tossed her head back, huffing in frustration, getting back to her feet from where she'd stumbled out of surprise. "Oh? Gonna' be like that, huh?"

For over an hour she pulled and hacked at the vines surrounding the door. She managed to expose it completely, even though she had to shed her coat and scarf, sweat damp on her neck and chilling along her chest. She tugged at her wool shirt, panting at the results from her exertions. The door was faded but appeared to have once been gray. It now was simply warped wood, swollen and splintered, with rusted iron hinges and handle. The handle was in the shape of a wolf, she realized, approaching slowly. Her fingers dusted the rust off; they were already stained almost black from the dirt she'd been yanking and digging from the wall.

The wolf was snarling, but she did not feel as though it were to intimidate or frighten. The handle hung from beneath and she tugged on it, but the door did not budge. "Come on," she mumbled, throwing her shoulder against it, wincing at the shock of pain that radiated up her arm to her neck. _Okay Dany, not smart, it is locked after all._ She pressed a bit harder, wondering if maybe the lock was so old it would just break, but it did not budge. The door had been sealed, locking the contents within away for forever.

_Or until I find the key._

Dany looked up at the stone arch the door sat into, at the faded words. She squinted, trying to make them out, moss still covering them. "Winter is coming," she murmured, shielding her hand over her eyes to see better. She dropped her hand to her side. "The words of House Stark."

The door would not open, even with the words. She wondered maybe off handedly that it would just _open_ , like a magical wonderland from one of the books she read as a child. She kicked around the bottom of the door, at the stones in a stoop in front of it, shaking her head and wondering if she had really gone mad.

She hacked at the stones with the horse pick, but it was not strong enough to churn up the dirt. She scowled; she would have to find a trowel or spade. "Damn." falling back on her heels, Dany surveyed the work she had accomplished. Her hands were filthy, blisters forming rather painfully along her palms, but she had done it. She smiled, gazing at the door, imagining what could be on the other side.

_A garden untended could be a beautiful thing, full of endless possibility._

Or perhaps it _was_ a doorway to another land. A magical, fantastical place, like how Valyria had been, she thought sadly. She reached to wipe some sweat from her brow, silver threads of hair sticking against her cheeks. Thank the gods Rhaegar was gone, if he saw her, he would have an apoplexy. It would be bad enough trying to explain her appearance to Missy or Gilly.

A wolf howl broke through the quiet, alerting her to the time. "Gods!' she yelped, checking the sky, seeing that the sun had long said farewell, clouds rolling in to signal the beginning of the evening. She struggled to her feet, grabbing her coat and hat, running off and leaving the pick behind; she would just get it later.

She ran through the path she'd carved out in the wood, barely noticing the sting as a thorn scratched her cheek. Once she got to the actual trail, she could hear Davos calling her name, followed not long after by an echo from Grey. " _Lady Daenerys! Lady Daenerys!_ "

A curse slipped her lips. They were going to be livid with her. "Here!' she called, finally breaking through, seeing Davos and Grey off on the other side of the large yard, towards the entrance to the moors. She waved her hat, so they could see, out of breath and suddenly quite exhausted from her gardening work. "I'm here!"

All she could tell them was she had lost track of time in exploring the Wolfswood, when Davos asked for explanation, saying Master Aemon was beside himself with worry when she did not return for tea. She apologized, stumbling over herself, now quite cold as the excitement of her excavating faded away, the sweat on her skin chilled and causing shivers to course through her. Missy and Gilly bundled her to her bathing room, dumping hot water into the copper tub, which she sunk into happily.

Gilly clucked her tongue like a hen. "Your hands! They're so dirty! Look like Little Sam after he's been in the vegetable patch."

"What were you doing?" Missy asked. She scowled, as if knowing already. "In the wood all day?"

Her cheeks were pink from the scalding heat of the water; she purred happily though, for there was no heat too much for her. It reminded her of the hot springs in Valyria, from the volcanoes. She sighed, closing her eyes. "I was just exploring."

"In the mud? a lady of your station?" Gilly seemed beside herself.

The other handmaid smiled, shaking her head and reaching to hand Dany a scrub so she could get at her nails. "Did you find anything in your explorations?" she asked, casual. Another dark eyebrow lifted knowingly. Teasing, almost.

Dany smirked. "Not yet, but I think I'm close."

"Just be careful." Missy picked up the dirty clothes, bundling them up and carrying them to the door. She paused, looking over her shoulder, warning softly. "Sometimes things don't like to be unearthed, when they have been away for so long."

 _I will take it under consideration._ She waited for the maids to leave her to her bath, before closing her eyes and sinking under entirely, holding her breath for as long as she could before she popped out, gasping and sputtering. She wiped soap from her eyes, slumping back. The curiosity would kill her. The forever wondering of what was behind those walls and the secrets that they contained. Dany thought this had become her reason for being, why she was here in this strange world, in these strange heavy clothes, with her strange brother and all the mysteries shrouded in the walls of the manor.

Dany wiped water from her eyes, pushing her hair back from her face, and sat back up again. She finished cleaning and bundled in her robe, Missy coming back in to help with her hair. The wet ropes of silver bound tight in a series of braids, before coiling in a single one down her back, she allowed Missy to dress her in a day skirt and blouse, foregoing a corset; there was no need for her to wear it just sitting about the house after all.

The long skirts of the day sometimes felt like she was being kept in a cage, unable to truly run or move, but she supposed that was the purpose of them. To keep women in dainty steps, sitting at the table with their embroidery, having tea, and gossiping with friends before going shopping. She wondered at what point Rhaegar would try to set her up with a match for a husband; she shuddered at the notion. Obviously, it was something that would be discussed; she just hoped Rhaegar’s need to keep their entire family secret would afford her time to figure out her next steps.

And right now her next steps were to get in that garden and to speak with Jon. “Thank you Missy,” she said, smiling at the maid when she finished helping her dress. She walked over to pick up some books, clearing her throat. “I am going to find Aemon.”

“I think he’s taking a nap, before supper. If he is not able to eat in the main dining area, would you like me to set you a plate in the kitchens with us or perhaps the conservatory?” Missy asked.

Dany did not look up, pretending to turn a page in the book, her words careful. “Perhaps I shall eat with Jon.” She smiled, finally lifting her head, at Missy’s wide-eyed look. “He does eat supper, yes?”

Missy blinked. She swallowed hard and nodded, slow. “Yes. He does.”

“Then I shall supper with him,” she said. Final, more of an order. She arched her brow. “Will this be a problem, you think?”

“Ah…no, with Lord Rhaegar out of course,” Missy said. She chuckled, nodding slightly. “I…I want you to know that I meant no offense by not telling you about him, it’s just…” She frowned, her delicate features pinching in frustration. “Lord Rhaegar is very clear when it comes to Master Jon. He is not to be disturbed, we should not speak of him, it…it’s for his own good, he says.”

Dany didn’t understand that. “How?” she asked. “He’s alone all day. How is that good?”

“I do not know why Lord Rhaegar thinks these things, but I know that since I have been here Master Jon has almost died several times.” Missy’s brow furrowed. She seemed quite sad. “And each time he almost dies, Lord Rhaegar is a force, Dany. He seems about to die himself. I think he keeps Jon away to make it easier for him, painful though it may be.”

Dany sat down at the small table, unable to stand, wishing hse could know everything. She folded her hands tight in her lap, whispering. “What happened to him? He told me he broke his back.”

Missy nodded quickly, going over to sit at the table with her. She seemed eager to get out all that she had been keeping secret, for which Dany was grateful. “Yes, you see he was climbing a tree, he should not have been, and…” She looked ready to cry. “Lady Lyanna went to get him…he was very far up and…” She paused, ducking her head, hardly speaking. “They fell.”

 _Oh my gods._ Dany realized now why Jon had made such a nasty joke about it. He had been responsible. She covered her mouth with her palm, stunned. “Oh,” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine the pain he must feel. Or Rhaegar. She dropped her hand back to her lap, whispering. “Lady Lyanna died.”

Missy nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“And Jon was injured.”

“He did not wake for some time, I’m told. I do not know the rest of it, but I believe there’s more, things that Rhaegar does not tell us, and things that remain secret.” Missy looked at her hands again, twisting them in her apron, whispering. “Jon is in pain most of the day, we are told to help when we can, but only Rhaegar and the visiting Maester from Winterfell truly tend to him. All we can do is give him milk-of-the-poppy for his pain and sometimes I do not think even that helps.” She got to her feet and went to the door, hand on the knob. She glanced over her shoulder. “The poppy only helps with the physical pain, you see.”

The door closed quietly after Missy left, leaving Dany to wonder. Rhaegar clearly was doing what he was doing to protect himself, to protect his heart, and she understood that. Was she not constantly in pain over the loss of her mother? Even of Viserys? Of her entire home? She had buried that pain deep in her heart, doing what she could to move beyond it, but whenever she thought of her mother it was like she was losing her all over again.

She pulled at the ring on her index finger, Rhaella’s ring. She wondered why Rhaeger never told anyone about Jon in the first place. Was he a sickly child? Did he fear losing him from the very beginning?

These were questions that consumed her, questions she hoped to get answers to, but suspected she might never fully understand. She got to her feet and left her room, walking defiantly down the corridors to the west wing, up the stairs, and to Jon’s room. She knocked lightly and did not wait for anyone to speak, before she went inside.

When she closed the door behind her, she could see that most of the lights were out, no candles on the wall or tables, and the fire was glowing low in the grate, in need of tending. She went to it; it was freezing without the flames in the hearth. She added a few logs, turning and taking stock of the rest of the room.

All the books were in order in the shelves or on the tables. A desk was in the corner; she had not noticed it before. The table with various bottles and vials and canisters was also in order. She saw there were a series of crutches against a wardrobe. Ghost was nowhere to be seen, perhaps outside. She realized, her cheeks warming in realization, that Jon was asleep in the bed.

Only one of the windows was open, the dying sun casting shadows on his pale face. She stared at him, the way his eyelashes dusted his cheekbones, the set of his hands on either side of his hips, the quilts and blankets drawn over his waist, but his snowy white night-shirt half-way open to show the expanse of a strongly muscled chest. She swallowed the dry patch in her throat, walking over to the foot of the bed, wondering if hse could help him with anything. She did not see anything truly out of order, so perhaps she would come back later.

Except when she took a step to the door, she heard a low moan behind her. She turned slowly, watching Jon shift in the bed. He winced, his eyes closed, pain flickering over his face, contorting in the pull of his lips and the furrow in his brow. “Jon?” she whispered.

“Hurts,” he mumbled. He clutched the quilt, twisting, crying out. She lunged towards him, unsure what to do. His eyes flickered open and he lifted his fingers, trembling, pointing to the table. “That…that one.”

Dany hurried to the table and picked up one of the bottles. “The poppy?” she asked.

He shook his head hard, pointing to another one. “Red,” he gasped.

She picked up the red bottle and rushed to him again, opening it up, her fingers shaking from nerves. He looked so pained, she had no idea how to help him, staring as he took the pill, she passed him, and he shoved it into his mouth. She grabbed for a glass of water at his bedside, helping him drink it, a hand on the back of his head. Her heart stuttered in her chest, hoping that whatever he had taken would help ease his discomfort.

And to her horror, he fell backwards into the pillows, and then she watched, mouth opening in silent scream, as his eyes rolled back, revealing the whites, and he went still.

“Jon!” she yelped. She had no idea what to do, forgetting that she was not even supposed to be there, and cried out. “Help! Someone!”

The door pushed open, Sam hurrying in. “It’s alright,” he said, helping her off the bed, moving to prop Jon up against the headboard, fussing with the blankets. He took the bottle from her and placed it on the table again. He patted her shoulders, kind smile, soothing her. “It’s alright, he will be fine. Here, have a seat.”

A chair pressed under her and she fell into it, unsure what she was even still doing there. Sam left, closing the door, and she stared at Jon as his eyes remained white, until suddenly he gasped, chest arching up and eyes blinking, returning to their normal gray. He stared at her for a moment, unseeing, until he sighed, hand lifting slightly, reaching over for the water at his bedside. “Dany,” he rasped.

“Here.”

After a moment, he sat up a little further. He closed his eyes, waving his hand towards the wall. “My crutches.”

She glanced over, frowning, and stood, walking over to the various medical devices. “Which…”

“Those are fine.”

Dany carried the crutches she had seen when she first snuck up and found him, with strange wraps around them. He took them and she stood back, watching him fling the covers from the bed over, revealing black trousers and bare feet. He adjusted the crutches around his wrists and held onto the handles, pulling himself up. He smiled briefly at her. “I can walk, these make it easier,” he said. He took careful steps, the crutches bearing most of his weight. He glanced over his shoulder, taking his time to get to the chair at the fire. “So what do I owe this visit?”

“Rhaegar’s gone for a bit.”

“Paying homage to my uncle, yes.”

Dany went to sit across from him, still unsure if she should be helping him at all, but it seemed Jon was fairly self-sufficient. She wanted to ask him what happened but was torn between giving him his privacy and prying. Or telling him about the door she’d unearthed, the key she still wanted to find. She frowned, choosing a safe topic. “Where is Ghost?”

“On the moor, chasing pheasant. He will be in shortly.” Jon wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling, his eyes still dark. “So, what did you find?”

And Dany found herself, still desperately wanting to know what she had just witnessed but choosing to tell him about her day. She pulled her feet under her again, telling him about how she asked Uncle Aemon about him, about how she went into the forest, and spent the entire afternoon cleaning off the wall and the door. She told him about the inscription above the archway, the wolf handle, and the sight of the red leaves overtop the walls. “I need to find the key,” she murmured, twisting her fingers in her lap. She stared at the fire. “Then I can see inside the walls.”

Jon tapped his fingers to his lips, cocking his head. “Rhaegar,” he began. He paused and continued. “Rhaegar would have hidden it close. He would never have gotten rid of it. He is too…sad for that.”

“This house is gigantic, could be anywhere,” she sighed. The other option she supposed would be to knock off the door handle. Maybe if she could do that, she could get her hand around to open it from the inside. She glanced at him again, staring into the fire. So serious, she thought, although she supposed he had to be. She swallowed, remembering what Missy said. “Your back,” she whispered. He met her eyes, unblinking. “You broke it, you said.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“How?”

He set his lips in a line and folded his hands in his lap. She saw his shoulders tremble, very slightly, and his eyes closed. “I was eight. I climbed a tree. I fell. I woke up three months later.” He laughed, harsh. “My mother was dead, and my father had run off to Essos, to grieve.” He sighed, shrugging, barely whispering now, clearly still filled with grief and pain. “And every so often I get sick, almost die, and Rhaegar almost dies too. I think he’s just expecting it now. Maybe even wishing it.”

She closed her eyes, tears pricking the corners of them. Dany heaved a sigh, hoping she did not start to cry. “I saw my mother waving to me goodbye from a dock,” she said. She focused on the flames, thought about how they looked like the ones that were beginning to spout from the volcanoes around Valyria. She shook her head. “She said she would see me, but I knew it was a lie. The ship got to Volantis and I found out that all of Valyria was gone. The entire peninsula ripped from the continent.” She glanced at him, smirking. “We’re just made for each other, aren’t we?”

That had him smiling, even if it was not much. He nodded. “Aye.”

She smiled again, cocking her head, frowning. “What was it you did? When your eyes went white?”

The bare smile faded. He ran his tongue over his teeth, knuckles white as he gripped the armrest of the chair. Dany wasn’t sure he would answer her. Until he did. “It is called…warging. It’s…hard to explain.”

“So try.”

Except before he could say anything of it, the door opened and Missy stepped in, smiling knowingly at her. She nodded at them both. “Would you like your supper in here?”

Jon nodded, but Dany shook her head. “No, he won’t have it here, he’ll have it in the drawing room.”

Missy looked between them both, confused. Jon cocked his head at her, frowning. “Oh?”

“Yes.” She stood, walking over to the wardrobe and opened it, taking out a black jacket, scowling at the sheer number of them hanging. “Do you own anything that is not the color black?”

“It’s my color.”

“Hmm.” She would have to see to it that he got something else. Maybe green or blue. Or even gray, it would bring out his eyes. She tugged out a jacket and walked over, helping him to his feet. Missy carefully held the crutches as she helped his arms into it. “We are going to eat somewhere that is not this drafty room. Rhaegar is not here, consider it a…well a prison break, let’s say.”

Jon smirked. “Prison break?”

“Yes.” She placed her hand on his lower back, walking with him toards the door, when he sighed, nodding to a door that she had not noticed, which was tugged closed. “What’s in there?”

“The chair,” he scowled. Pink rose on his cheeks. “The crutches…it is easier with the chair.”

She opened the door and saw a rolling chair, nodding in understanding. It would be easier for him, for now. Dany wondered how often he got to walking about. She helped him into the chair and when Missy moved to push it, she shook her head. “I’ve got it.”

Jon looked up at her, frowning. “You are unaccustomed to hearing the word ‘no’, are you?”

“Yes.” She pushed him down the hall, towards the west wing drawing room, glad the curtains were open. It would be nice to actually look out and see the moors and the forest when they ate; the dining room downstairs had no windows to look out upon. She pushed him to the table, coming around and taking a seat across from him, smiling and leaning on the table with her elbows. “Now, you were saying about how the key needed to be close?”

Missy brought their supper and Ghost joined soon after, curling at his master’s feet, eager to take scraps she dropped over the side. “You’ll make him soft and fat,” Jon said. She noticed he did not eat much, pushing most of his food around on his plate.

Dany smiled, leaning to kiss Ghost on the nose. “He’s perfect, he’s not soft or fat.”

“Soon enough.”

She picked up her glass of wine, lifting it to her lips, shrugging. “Now about that key.”

“It’d be close,” Jon said. He rubbed at the back of his neck, closing his eyes. He shook his head briefly, whispering. “Sorry, I’m tired. I’ve…this is…a lot.”

 _Good_ , she thought, although she was unsure why. She pressed him further. “The key?”

He sighed again. “It’d be close. Rhaegar would never burn down the garden after…after what happened. Just lock it all away.” He fiddled with a piece of bread, before dropping it over the table for Ghost. He looked pale again, she thought, pushing back and going to move his chair. He said nothing, as she pushed the chair closer to the fireplace. She handed him a glass of wine and sat beside him. He twisted the glass in his fingers, whispering. “I would check the door itself. It might be there.”

_The door itself?_

She nodded, although she was not sure what he meant. It seemed to be wearing on him. She moved and sat at the chair next to him, crossing her legs carefully. “Whatever shall we do Jon? Rhaegar is gone, Aemon is likely asleep, and it is just us.”

Jon closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the rest behind his chair, murmuring. “Tell me about Valyria.”

_Valyria._

“It’s gone,” she said, flat.

He smiled, even though his eyes were still open. “No, I mean…tell me about growing up there. The good parts. Rhaegar never speaks of it.”

Dany thought of the beauty of her home. The spires, the dragonglass, the jewels. The old dragon skulls and the volcanoes. The lush green hills and the hot springs. She began to speak of it, of the most beautiful place in the world, and how wonderful it was, the sun and the deserts and the heat. The sea with its endless islands and caves.

For some time she spoke about Valyria, until she heard a sound from her feet, glancing to see Ghost had nudged her. He stood, stretching, and she glanced to see Jon, who was fast asleep in his chair. She smiled, ruffling Ghost’s head. “It was probably a bit much,” she whispered. She would not disturb him though, she thought, remaining in her chair, not until he woke. He looked peaceful.

He looked pain-free, she thought. Ghost pressed his head into her lap, and she rubbed his ears, idly scratching and staring into the fire, until she felt herself drifting off too.


	4. a dragon's curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon becomes ill, scaring Dany; Aemon provides some answers; Ghost leads Dany to a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy self-quarantine! Getting some work done while cooped up at home. Although the two one-shots I'm working on might not be ready for a bit, I'm making headway on this fic for sure.
> 
> Enjoy and thank you for the reviews :)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49616173787/in/dateposted-public/)

The few times Dany was able to sneak off to visit with Jon were filled with what she believed were probably some of the happiest times she had had since arriving at Dragonstone Manor. She had encouraged him to take his meals in the drawing room rather than his room, even if he still seemed highly uncomfortable in anyplace other than his chair by the fire or the bed. He protested numerous times, claiming he was tired, he was in pain, or that he just _didn't want to._ He was quite obstinate, she discovered, even when she tried to drag him from the bed herself, he locked up and refused.

She had ignored him for two days after one particularly angry argument, where he had essentially turned into a petulant child. She suspected he thought he was an invalid because his father had turned him into one. Locked him away as though he were mad, danger to himselr or to others. It was wrong of Rhaegar. She almost did not want him to return, because the longer he stayed away, the more time she could spend with Jon without people wondering. Although at that point, only Missy, Gilly, and Sam knew of her visits. She suspected Grey knew too, for he would smile knowingly at her when she went into the kitchens as he was on his way out. Missy probably told him.

It had been raining, preventing her from journeying to the garden again, to search for the key. That was still her secret. Just her and Jon. No one else, not even Missy knew she was searching for the way inside. Although Missy suspected, based on that conversation they'd shared after her return, with dirty hands and trousers, inquiring about Jon, about why he was unable to walk and why Rhaegar hid him so.

She woke one morning, about two weeks after Rhaegar had left, eager to see the sun. "I will finally get to see the garden again," she decided. She dressed, in a skirt and blouse, figuring she would at least try to check on Jon. She still felt strange entering the west wing, fearing Rhaegar would appear and yell at her or banish her as well. The peculiar watched feeling left when she stepped into Jon's room, finding him in bed.

"Wake up," she called, going to the windows, pulling the curtains aside.

He immediately pulled a pillow over his eyes. "No."

"Yes, perhaps you should break your fast outside today."

"No!" _That's it!_ She had had enough of him when he got like this. It happened a lot, she would not call it a tantrum, but he would refuse to do something that was quite simple, like eating somewhere not in his room. Dany grabbed the pillow from him, hitting him on the face as she did so, scowling. He gaped at her, eyes wide. He blinked. "You just hit me." He drew back slightly. "No one has ever done that before."

"Well they should. You're stubborn. You should be hit, and hit often. Might knock some sense into you." She smacked him again with the pillow, hiding her smile as he still remained affronted, too surprised to acknowledge that she had dared to defy Master Jon's word. She felt no shame in it. She huffed, her heels clicking on the hardwood, walking over to his wardrobe. Not that there was much to choose from. Jon's uniform consisted of black coat and trousers or else his nightshirt and a robe. Also black. She closed the wardrobe, removing one of his coats, setting it on the end of the bed.

He turned his face from her, eyes closing, hand waving. "Not today."

There was pain in his words, that had not been there before. She turned, hoping she had not hurt him when she'd smacked him with the pillow-- it hadn't been very hard. "Jon?"

A mumble responded to her query. She walked over, pressing the back of her palm to his head. It was burning-- even she could feel it through the veil of her already above average temperature. "Oh no," she mumbled, both of her hands now pressing to his cheeks. His eyes remained shut and she carefully pulled up his eyelid, seeing that the whites were showing again. _Warging._ There was still no answer to what that meant, she'd asked him, but he cahnged the subject.

Ghost howled, off in the woods somewhere, distracting her. "Damn," she mumbled, pulling the blankets off him. She reached around behind one of the bed curtains, pulling on the rope that served as his bell, ringing somewhere in the kitchens or the house, she knew one of them was for Rhaegar's room, and she pulled that one too, just in case. She had no idea what to do or who would be coming to help, all she knew from when she had been ill as a child that she get him as cool as possible.

Sweat beaded on his brow and she hurried to the ensuite washroom, turning the tap and sighing in relief when cold water sputtered from teh metal spigot. She carried the bowl to the bedside, swiping some linens from the cabinet on her way. Dany sat at his side, the bowl on the nightstand, and rolled up her sleeves to her elbows, soaking the linens and began to wipe at his forehead and chest.

 _A fever can be deadly_ , she remembered her mother telling her once. She couldn't imagine in Jon's state. She heard the door open, Sam hurrying in. "I heard the call, is he alright?" he asked.

"He's feverish."

"He's gone, isn't he?"

 _Gone?_ She frowned, until she glanced at Jon's closed eyes and realized that Sam meant whatever the _warging_ was. She nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"He does that, when he can." Sam busied himself with medicines, carrying some over, including a few nasty looking syringes. She winced, watching him inject things into Jon's skin and then glanced over his shoulder when Gilly arrived. "Help me get him to the bath, we need to bring the fever down."

"I'll do it," Dany said, as Sam looped one of Jon's limp arms around his shoulder. She helped as best she could, until Sam pushed her out, saying that he could take it from there, the Maester would be on the way soon. She glanced at the bed, Gilly fussying with the linens, changing them out for fresh ones. _I have to help._ "I've got that, let me," she said, offering.

They changed the bed linens, Gilly also setting out fresh clothing, and instructing her to make sure that his crutches were near. She did so, feeling quite out of place, as it was clear to her that they were used to this. She heard a pained cry from the bathroom and whipped her head, brow wrinkling, concerned. "Does this happen offten?" she murmured, as Sam assured Jon he was fine.

Gilly nodded, placing another pillow back onto the bed. "Aye, lately...it's gotten worse. Fevers can kill him, you see. He's in pain more than ever...sometimes he disappears and can't come back."

Dany cocked her head. "What does that mean?" _Go and can't come back?_

Gilly shook her head again, eyes darkening. "I shouldn't speak of it."

 _Why the secrets?_ Dany wanted to cry, about to demand Gilly tell her more, as Jon was hurting and she wanted to know how to make it better, how to do what she could stop it, in this family member she had only just learned about, only was just getting to know. _I need him_ , she thought, _like he needs me._ They were the last targaryens, the four of them under the dreary roof, even if Rhaegar refused to acknowledge it. They had to be there for each other.

Except any demands of Gilly when unasked, because the door opened and Sam popped out, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jacket off. "Dany, can you assist me?"

"Sam, I can help," Gilly began. She stiffened. "Lady Daenerys does not need to..."

"I don't need to, but I want to."

 _Gods help the person who tries tos top me._ She marched into the bathroom, only to stop in her tracks, staring at Jon. She wasn't sure what to expect, but seeing...her eyes widened, at the scars that tracked along his chest, that had been hidden by his shirt, slashing across his abdomen. Her mouth snapped shut. _Not the time._ She helped Sam get him from the bath, could see the whites of his eyes coming and going from beneath flickering eyelids. She helped him stand, as Sam helped dress him again, and they carried him together back to the bed.

As she pulled his shirt over his head, she had seen more scars, nasty ones along his back. Otherwise, his spine appeared fine, she thought. She had feared it would be knotted, twisted from being broken so long ago, but other than his weak state and the scars on his chest, one would never know that he had endured such physical trauma that had left him in his current state. She wondered why the scars on his chest though; seemed an odd location for someone who had broken their back. She pushed the wonderings from her mind, focusing on him, on ensuring he was as comfortable as he could be.

Gilly appeared again, with a fresh jug of water, setting it on the nightstand. “Thank you,” Dany whispered, looking up, nodding. She glanced at Jon again. Her fingers brushed his damp hair from his face. She frowned. “This happens often?”

“Every so often, we are not sure why. The Maester thinks it has to do with his body’s state, weakened and such,” Sam answered. He nodded to the scars, at how she stared at the ones peeking from the opening of his shirt. “You…you are probably curious of those well…” He stammered a bit, until she eyed him, brow arched, silently telling him to speak, to just get on with it. Sam hung his head, muttering. “Rhaegar did everything he could. Tried to get every Maester in the Seven Kingdoms to help him. Took him to every hospital he could find. That is how I met him, you see.”

“Oh?” she whispered.

He nodded, walking over, smiling briefly at Jon’s sleeping state. “I am from the Reach, you see, in the south. My father was not a…not a kind man. He sent me away, to the Citadel, to Oldtown, where they train the Maesters. One of the best hospitals in the world is there and doctors, but doctors were not helpful. I met Jon through Maester Aemon, he saw me in the library, well, _heard_ me. He brought me to him, so he could have someone near his age to speak with, and well, I became his friend.” Sam’s cheeks went ruddy. “That was when Lord Rhaegar gave up.”

She glanced at Jon, who had made a pained moan in his sleep again. She touched her fingertips briefly to one of the nastier scars curving out of his shirt. It rested over his heart. It curved like a sickle, almost like someone tried to carve out his heart themselves. She placed the flat of her palm over it, comforted by the drumbeat of his heart against her. She barely acknowledged Sam’s words, but keyed in on one statement, quizzical. “Rhaegar gave up?”

“Aye, he was desperate. There was this Maester…he had lost his chain, but he claimed he could help. That the established academics at the time did not believe in his work. Ah…Qyburn, I believe his name was.” Sam fretted, hands twisting. “Rhaegar paid him, so much in gold, hoping he could fix him, using new methods, but…” Sam sighed again, whispering. “It just hurt him. The scars are left from the surgeries. Jon got an infection, a bad one, and almost died. I think that was the closest he had come. Rhaegar took him home, ensured Qyburn never worked again, and honestly well…” He ducked his head again. “I shouldn’t…”

“Tell me.” She had somehow maintained calm at hearing this story, determined to hear it through. _Maester Qyburn better be dead, or I shall murder him myself for taking advantage_ , her thoughts gathered, muddled by pain for Rhaegar at almost losing his child when he seemed so desperate to save him. Pain for Jon, at what he must have endured. She glared at Sam; snapped: “Speak!”

“I think Rhaegar might have killed him,” Sam blurted out. He shuddered. “He was so angry. He brought be with him, my father was glad for it. I was grateful to Rhaegar, of course.” He frowned. “But Jon never needed surgeries to walk again. I think it was just Rhaegar’s desperation.” He patted her shoulder, rather awkward, and stammered. “I..ah…I will see…see to Gilly. Just…sit with him. Ring if he gets worse…but…”

The stuttering of Sam was going to grate her nerves raw one day. He was a kind man, but sometimes he seemed to fear his own voice. She grit her teeth. “Yes?”

“If he shakes, if his eyes go white, let him go.” Sam said nothing more of it, walking to the door and leaving, cracking it open slightly.

Wherever he seemed to go in those moments, when Jon’s eyes went white and he disappeared, Dany thought he was free. Perhaps it was some other world, where he could walk and run, like a man his age should be able to do. She traced the scars absently, moving to lie on the bed beside him, alternating between dragging cold cloths on his skin and watching his chest rise and fall in deep slumber.

Her hand found his, squeezing lightly in his fingers. She played with them, holding his hand between her two, marveling at the nimble length of them, the veins popping pale blue against his almost snow-white complexion. One of her hands tracked to cover his chest again. For someone bedridden, his upper body was strong, well-toned, she thought. He had to be, she guessed, to swing himself around like he did on the crutches. She gazed out the window from where she lay in the bed, seeing a flash of white on the moor. _Ghost._ The wolf’s connection to his master mystified her. She was not even sure she could call Jon his master, for the wolf seemed to run as free as he wanted, no claim to anyone but himself.

She closed her eyes, head on the pillow beside his, whispering: “I need you to get better Jon. I only just met you and I feel like if you leave me, it shall be completely unfair, since we’ve been in the same house for over half a year, but we finally have each other.” Hot salty tears stung the corners of her eyes. Dany scowled at her maudlin feeling. It was unlike her. She wiped angrily at the tears with the back of her hand. “How about this?” she offered. She gripped his hand so tight, nails digging into the skin, she hoped he woke because she was breaking the bones. She growled; an angry dragon. “I shall kill you if you do not awake. I have lost everyone and everything and I finally met you. I like you; I want to know more of you, and you cannot die. I forbid it.”

It felt like they had known each other their entire lives, rather than just half a month. She had gotten him to leave his suite of rooms, he had given her a reason to believe. Believe in something other than the day-to-day mundaneness of living as a gentlewoman in the wild North. She did not want to lose another family member, not so soon after finding out about him.

The day endured, Jon tossing and turning every so often, when he was crying in pain, she did what she could to soothe it. She barely ate, busy tending to him, and when he slept deeply, she either lay at his side in the bed or she sat in one of the chairs by the fire, reading some of the books that littered the tables and desk in his rooms. He had quite the collection, she found, probably pilfered from Uncle Aemon.

One of the books she found was about Northern religion, which she found fasincating, thinking that perhaps it would be better help to her in discovering about weirwood trees than any books on botany that Sam could dredge up. “The weirwood tree, sometimes referred to as a hearttree, is the single most important symbol in the religion of the Old Gods of the Forest,” she murmured, reading aloud, intrigued as she ran her finger over colorful drawings of white trunked trees with blood-red leaves.

The hearttree, she learned, had a face carved into it, believed to be by the Children of the Forest, who established the religion. The First Men to Westeros adopted it, in making peace with the Children. Once there were hearttrees all over Westeros, but now the majority are only in the North, and very few weirwoods even made up the godswoods of southern homes. Although, she discovered, frowning as she read about the religion beyond the North, almost all great manors had godswoods, for their guests who practiced.

In Valyria, religion was not important. It was simply something that some people believed in and they were allowed, no matter their religion, to believe. There were some who followed the Faith of the Seven, which she knew was the majority of believers in Westeros. Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men, her mother used to tell her, adopting the phrase that many dragonrider families of Valyria had used as an unofficial motto.

She wondered about the tree in the garden; was it a godswood? Surely it was, she thought, lifting her tired eyes from the book to study the painting of Lyanna Stark. It was a weirwood, of course, painted behind her. She looked back at the book, turning pages as she read further. She focused in on what she could about the power the trees were said to possess, the connection the gods had with their followers through the trees.

And then she saw it, almost skipped right over it as she finished one of the chapters about Northerners belief in magic, and in particular, magical customs of the North: _wargs._ “Oh,” she exclaimed, tugging the book almost straight to the tip of her nose. To her disappointment, as the weathered pages only spoke of it an almost throwaway manor:

_Some Northerners, particularly those either raised along the Wall or from those who spent time there, believe in the mystical power of ‘warging’: wherein a man can slip his skin and put on the skin of another, almost exclusively an animal, and see through the animal’s eyes, behaving as though the man was the animal._

It went on to explain how this was often just old stories, told by storytellers around the fires, especially as it related to the legend of the Warg King, who the Stark family had defeated in the Age of Heroes, and whose daughters they took as hostages, marrying them into the ancient family.

_Warg King._

_Stark._

Dany set the book down, her skin prickling rather peculiarly. She shivered, although she was not cold; the room was thick with heat from the fireplace and in some ways wafting from Jon’s overheated body. She drew her knees to her chest, arms looping around them, and stared at his still form. She squinted; where did he go when he went _away_?

And how did Ghost play into it?

The wolf seemed to know when she thought of it; practically summoned him. He padded over to her, head dropping to her knee. She dropped her hand to his head, between his pointy ears. Tufts of fur stuck up from around them, twitching with every creak of the old manor and crackle of the logs in the hearth. White as snow, he stood in blinding contrast to the darkness of the room, a beacon, a _ghost._ His red eyes reminded her of the fire, but there was far more light in them than even a fire could provide.

She tore between confusion over the mysteries of this manor and its occupants and wondering if it was worth pursuing. Valyria’s destruction also destroyed her heart, rendering her angry and sullen, refusing to grant this strange world the distinction of _home._ It was not her home, even as she lived under its roof, walked its halls, and slept in its beds. Her entire world had been Valyria and the North could not be more different.

Except in a short time since she stumbled upon this man lying asleep in the bed, she began to feel the need to know more, to almost _become_ more. The garden started it, but the more she tore at the vines and the leaves around the wall, desiring to know more and see more, the same could be said for the overgrowth around her heart. She buried her face into Ghost’s soft neck, inhaling. He had been out in the woods, she could smell the pine, the mist of rain, and the earthy dirt that clung to the bottom of his paws.

Her fingers stroked his muzzle, peering into his eyes once more. _So human_ , she thought again, noticing the spark in the red irises, the same familiar glint in them as… _I don’t understand._

___As Jon._ _ _

__“Are you in there?” she whispered._ _

__Ghost nuzzled into her palm, licking her wrist, and whined, low and plaintive. She smiled, her heart lighting at the love he exuded, the patience and the unwavering support for his master. He turned his head, gazing to the man in the bed, and pulled from her, hopping onto the bed, turning three times in a circle, before he dropped in a light _poof_ sound onto the mattress, head resting on Jon’s knee. _ _

__She missed her mother desperately for some reason then. Missed her smell of orange blossoms, the gentle touch of her fingers when Dany felt ill or just wanted love, sitting at her bedside when she was small and sometimes had nightmares. Her mother gave her life so that her daughter might survive, Dany would always be grateful for her mother’s love, to know such adoration. Jon might have had that, she thought, turning to peer at the painting of Lyanna Stark, the woman whose son resembled her more than he did his father, to a point where she would wonder if Rhaegar truly was his father—were it not for their same twist of lips when they were irritated or chill wafting from them when they wanted to shut out the world._ _

__Jon did not have a mother to sit with him when he was ill, to stroke his hair through the aftershocks of nightmares, or even to just argue with him, as mothers were wont to do with their children. “The world is unfair,” she muttered, her heart flaming for the gross misjustices of the world. A world where nasty Rhaegar could still walk but by all means, beautiful and kind and wonderful Lyanna Stark could perish._ _

__And leave behind a son who was nothing but a sad reminder to his father of all he’d lost, punished for it, relegated to a suite of rooms and not able to feel the sun on his skin. All because he fell from a tree and broke his back. Just like she happened to be born in a land where volcanoes grew more volatile by the year, until they finally rebelled, destroying all in their path._ _

__Dany got up from the chair, going to sit at Jon’s side again, the mattress sagging slightly under their combined weight. Ghost moved to press his cool nose into her palm. She smiled at him again. “You seem to share his thoughts,” she whispered. “Are you part human or is he part wolf?”_ _

__Ghost almost smiled, she was sure of it, his tongue darting out to lick his nose, before he closed his eyes and nuzzled into his master’s thigh, settling to sleep. He drew from Jon’s energy, she surmised, as Ghost slept, Jon almost sunk deeper into peace. His skin was no longer as warm, his cheeks only flushed pink instead of the fire red they had been. She stroked her fingertips along his hairline, curling one of the black spirals behind his ear, stroking at his bearded jaw._ _

__“Jon,” she whispered. He stirred, head moving on the pillow. His eyelids flickered, the inky lashes lifting barely. She smiled again, leaning forward, repeating his name: “Jon.”_ _

__He shifted, wincing, and she reached for the milk-of-the-poppy on the nightstand, but his head moved again, almost shaking ‘no.’ She moved away from it, agreeing. He did not need to be sedated more; maybe that had been the problem for most of his life. They were suppressing him, thinking he needed rest when he needed something else. She stroked his face again. “It’s Dany, are you feeling better?”_ _

__Eyelashes flicked again, until he lifted his eyes to her, straining against the heavy weight of residual sickness and fatigue. “Dany,” he breathed, lips hardly moving._ _

__“You had a fever,” she explained. She found herself still stroking his cheek, like her mother used to do to her. He closed his eyes again, lips pressing together, and she felt warm all over when she noticed he was smiling. She moved her hand, but he barely shook his head. She chuckled. “You like that?”_ _

__He nodded, barely. “Fever?”_ _

__“It seems to have broken.”_ _

__“Hmm…Ghost.”_ _

__“He’s right here.”_ _

__His hand pressed to the wolf and he turned his head once more, falling back into sleep. She kept stroking his face, until she was satisfied he wouldn’t wake for some time, and got to her feet. There were no clocks in his room, she had observed earlier, probably to keep him from realizing how long he spent in the room alone, so she went into the drawing room at the end of the hall, surprised at how late it really was. She needed to get to her room, but she found she did not want to leave him, even if the fever had broken._ _

__So she returned back to his room and tugged off her shoes and with only a brief moment of hesitation—she stripped to her chemise and stockings, climbing into the bed next to him. It would be fine, she figured, there was no one in the house who would make a scandal of it and he might need her, she would be right there. She settled beside Ghost; whose head was now over Jon’s heart._ _

__“Good boy,” she mumbled, patting his head again, before she closed her eyes, falling into a half-sleep, one ear constantly tuned to anything Jon might need during the night. Although she suspected Ghost might know before her._ _

A few days later, once Dany was satisfied that Jon had recovered from his fever, although he did still remain weak and unable to leave his bed, she ventured away from his rooms and went on a search for Uncle Aemon. She found him in his library, listening to the gramophone, the pretty strains of a piano filtering from the device, his fingers dancing in the air as though he were playing the notes himself.

She smiled warmly at the sight of him, sitting up in his chair, in his usual old Maester robes, a red blanket over his knees. “Uncle Aemon,” she greeted, approaching him slowly, so as not to startle him when she knelt at his side, kissing his knuckles and squeezing softly, the frail hand still quite strong within hers. “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

“Oh, these bones are strong today, sweet Daenerys.” He cocked his head, knowingly with a smile. “I have not seen you these past few days. Where have you been, child?”

A silver eyebrow arched, amused at his question, when she was certain a man as smart as him of course knew where she had been. “I have been with Jon, Uncle Aemon. I assume you know he has been ill. I was providing him company. Making sure he did not…” she trailed off, her jaw setting. She did not want to say the words aloud, for fear it would bring the action to pass.

Aemon smiled, patting her hand. “Fear of the word, Daenerys, is to give greater power to the meaning of it, you see. Say it, for it gives it less fear and less power.”

It was too terrible for her to say, it squeezed her heart, and made her stomach pain with fluttering. She swallowed, throat dry, the word choking, for it was the first time she had allowed herself to even _think_ it, let alone _say_ it. “He did not… _die._ ”

“Hmm.”

She rose to her feet, taking a seat on the settee beside Aemon, his hand still in hers. “Uncle Aemon, I do not want to play games any longer, I tire of them. Rhaegar is not here, you know about Jon and I know about him.” She felt herself smiling, just at the thought of him. “I have been spending time with him, he’s…he’s quite interesting.”

“Of course,” Aemon said. He sighed heavily, shoulders sagging, and for a brief moment Dany truly saw his age, over a century old, hanging from him like a weight around his neck. He lifted his hand, lightly touching his forehead, eyes closing. He spoke, reedy, tired. “I told Rhaegar we should tell you of Jon, before you came, but he would not hear of it. He…he fears the world Daenerys. He fears anyone and everyone who mean something to him, believes they will leave him, believes they will die most unjustly, before their time, and he will be alone again.”

As she gathered, of course, but it did not make her sympathize with her brother. He had plenty of time, to tell her, to tell their mother. “What about before Jon’s injury or Lyanna’s death?” she demanded. She scowled, tears pricking her eyes. “My mother did not even know of her grandchild, Uncle Aemon.”

He nodded and she could see the white in his irises begin to shimmer, like pearls, as he welled with tears. “Yes, I do not know his rationale there, other than he was scared he might lose them too. Could not have his mother lose another grandchild, as she had already lost two already, but I do not know. Rhaegar’s secrets are his own.” He coughed, choking slightly on his words. “Rhaegar was in such pain, sweet girl! He lost his wife and two children to a terrible disease, all three of them dying painfully, bloodily, and he was not there, could not even say goodbye to them, for he was away when the plague came to the home.” He cried out, feeling the pain himself most like. “And Lyanna! Oh sweet Lyanna! The light of his life, she saved him, she made him feel again. She brought the light back to him, showed him how to live, and when that sweet babe was born, it was as though Rhaegar had been reborn too. You never could have witnessed such love he felt for that beautiful girl and his child, Daenerys.”

The image of the beautiful woman in the painting, of a smaller version of Jon, and her brother…her cold and aloof brother, she struggled to put them together. “Why is Rhaegar so scared of Jon and I meeting?” she murmured.

“There is power in love, Daenerys, no matter the kind. Perhaps he does not want to see your pain when Jon dies, because he has resigned himself to his son’s fate.” Aemon placed his palm over his forehead, leaning heavily on the armrest of his chair. She took his other hand, lightly stroking, comfortingly. “I heard his cries, when he found his wife and child, Daenerys. They fell, you see, from a tree. He was as close to death itself at the time. Jon survived the fall, but as you saw recently, he walks the edge of life and death often. Rhaegar will surely die when his son perishes and I feel he has installed that fear within his son, convincing him not to leave his rooms, to stay in his bed, and be seen by no one, so that he does not hurt too.”

That she could understand, even from the discomfort Jon had when he left the room, just for the drawing room. She did not want him to feel that way. To be scared of the world, but it seemed he could still experience it. She glanced at Aemon, who was silently crying, lost in the memories of Lyanna Stark. She squeezed his hand again. “Lyanna’s death was an accident.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “A terrible accident, but to Rhaegar it was just one more melancholy, one more reason to shut himself from the world and the world from him.” Perhaps that was why Jon did not refer to Rhaegar as his father, she wondered, glancing at Aemon, and asking this question. Aemon nodded. “I do not know if that is the reason, perhaps it is to distance himself, or perhaps he does not see Rhaegar as his father.” He paused. “No one knows what goes through that boy’s mind, Daenerys. It is but his own.” He tapped his fingers again on the armrest, whispering. “Rhaegar has made him believe he will not live long, perhaps he does it to distance himself from that, as he fears death too, just like Rhaegar. Although he expects it.”

The idea of expecting death your entire life, she could not imagine. It was what Rhaegar had come to believe. Everything in his life would end in death and he would be the last one standing. “No wonder he does not want Jon and I to meet,” she murmured, speaking to herself.

“Hmm,” Aemon muttered. He hesitated and then nodded, pressing forward. “There is power in Targaryen blood, Daenerys. We are drawn to each other. We feel deep and hard, and with all you have lost in your life, I believe Rhaegar did not want you to attach to someone and lose them as well.”

 _Maybe, but it is my life, my love, and my loss_ , she thought. She looked to Aemon’s hands again, pale almost translucent, and then to the window at the Wolfswood. Aemon spent his entire days indoors, save for a few turns around the garden when he was up to it, and yet Jon…she thought of her real reason for coming to him. With no preamble, she blurted out: “What is warging?”

The soft chuckle had Aemon’s tears drying. “I believe you already know, if you are asking me.”

“Slipping the skin of an animal, but what really _is_ it?”

“No one knows, not really, only the wargs themselves.” Aemon chuckled again, leaning back in his chair. Dany could see he was tired; from the emotional drain the conversation had exerted on him. He dropped his hands to fold in his lap. “It is a mythical thing, Daenerys, some do not believe it exists.”

“And you?” she prodded.

Aemon only smiled again, twisting his lips, amused. “I believe you know the answer, Daenerys.” He turned his face to hers, eyes lifted to the ceiling, and chuckled. “Whatever truth there is to it, the connection between man and beast is unique, always has been, and probably always will be. Some are just master and pet, but others are something more. They are part of each other, and maybe when one body dies, the other can survive on.”

 _So if Jon’s body dies, he could live on inside of his wolf?_ Dany was unsure how to reconcile that with anything else. She knew there was a connection between the two, that Ghost was far more than just a wolf. He was a part of Jon, his blood and his breath as well. She nodded, knowing it was time to leave Aemon, for he was exhausted and she had taken a lot from him. She had one more question though. She took his hands into hers, leaning forward, whispering. “What was Lyanna Stark like?”

That had Aemon’s smile pulling broad over his face and for a brief moment she thought she saw his milky eyes turn lilac, like the flowers she hoped she could plant in the garden one day, if she could ever get it open. “Oh she was light, child. She was feisty and wild, she tamed an angry dragon, but he could not tame the wild wolf. She loved him with all her heart and her child too, and the first thing she thought of when she saw her cub in danger was to save him, even if it meant sacrificing herself.” He paused. Took a deep breath. “Only Jon knows what happened, but from what we believe, she went to collect him from the tree and slipped and they both fell. She died immediately and poor little Jon lingered in death’s hands for months, until he came back.”

“Jon never spoke of it?”

Aemon shook his head, whispering. “That is his secret.”

She nodded, leaning to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Aemon.”

“Be careful Daenerys. Remember, Targaryen emotions run deep, run fast and strong, stronger than the fastest river, harder than the heaviest of storms.” Aemon patted her hand, leaving her with that.

After she had him settled with the music again, before the fire, she left, returning to Jon’s room, where he was asleep again. Ghost was at the foot of the bed, head on his companion’s foot. The great white head lifted when she stepped in and he licked his lips, before hopping off the bed, red eyes on her, before he broke, heading out the door.

Dany was not sure why, but she followed.

Ghost led her through the trail to the garden, the walls the same as they were when she’d left them several days before. In Jon’s illness, she had not been to visit the garden or work on it, and now that he was better, she intended to return to her search for the key to the door. She did not know if it was Jon within the skin of his wolf, or if this was entirely Ghost’s doing, but she followed anyway, forgetting that she was not wearing her heavy boots or trousers or even her thick woolen skirts she chose to wear during her forays into the woods.

She lifted her skirt up, cursing the small ankle boots she’d been wearing, and lifted her face to see the sun was beginning to fade. It got dark so much earlier here in the far North, she mused. Dany ended up at the wall, her hand smoothing over the cold stone, walking along the side she had cleared of vines, turning at the corner to stop in front of the door, where Ghost now lay, paws on the stone in front of it.

“What is it?” she asked. Ghost nosed the dirt around the stone bricks. She chuckled, shaking her head, hands shoved into her armpits, to keep warm against the evening chill. “I already looked over there, boy.” Her breath came in visible puffs of smoke, cold rolling through like a train.

Since Ghost had never been wrong and since he had the intuition and knowledge that far surpassed any human, including herself, Dany knelt at the stone, her hand smoothing over it. It was as mossy and dirty as the rest of the bricks that made up the wall around the garden. _Except…_ She frowned, fingers digging at the bricks. There were twenty-five bricks, five in a row and five rows. They were rather large, smooth and stained almost black from the ages.

Except as she dug her nails into them, she began to see that like the worn stone of the archway above the door, there was a shallow engraving on one, the one in the middle of the top row. She could hardly make it out in the dark, but her fingers traced the words, speaking them aloud, hushed, like a spell. “ _ānogar hen issa prūmia, ānogar hen issa ānogar.”_

_Blood of my heart, blood of my blood._

Dany knew what lay under the stone. The moment she said the words, she knew, and she did not question how Ghost knew. She dug at the brick, grunting with effort as the dirt stuck and refused to budge. “Come on,” she grunted, eventually rocking the stone free and lifting. She was frantic, pawing in the mud and tangled roots from some of the weeds that sprouted from the edges of the door. She did not even know what she was searching for now.

Until her fingers hit it.

Solid metal.

“Oh!”

Fingers enclosed around the object, she fell backwards on her haunches, lifting the item as one might a holy relic, a talisman, an ancient rite. She stared at the iron object, rusty and dirty, but she knew what it was as she clutched it so tight, she worried her fingers would bleed, if they were not already.

_The key._

Dany came to her feet, her fingers trembling, not only from the cold, but from what she was about to do. She held her breath, her lungs straining for air, but she did not dare breathe. It might upset the balance. She watched the key, now somewhat clean of dirt, which now covered her hands, as it slid into the lock. The wolf mouth over the door swallowed the key and she stared, everything around her going quiet. The sounds of the wind in the trees muted, even her heart stopped beating.

And it clicked.

The sound exploded around her, the key turning, and she gasped, leaning against the door, Ghost beside her, pressing against it. The wood was old, but still heavy and solid, and even the warped planks gave way, hinges protesting against the inward movement, the door pushing open, allowing her to take a step over the threshold and into what lay on the other side.

_Magic._

Ghost entered first, ahead of her, and perhaps he had been there before, because he stood midway into the garden and turned, staring back at her. His red eyes provided something of a light for her. She gaped, heart alight, marveling at the interior of the garden. It was overgrown, truly, tangles of dried and dead roses, bushes, and other flowers, but it was the blinding white tree in the center of the garden that drew her attention.

The weirwood glowed, like the wolf who stood before it, falling back on his legs and throwing his head back, releasing an aching howl through the silence, rustling the bloody leaves above.

Dany stood at the door, her smile taking up her entire face, and she could not stop the racing feelings in her heart. She did not know what this place held, but she knew she had stumbled onto something truly amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dany works in the garden; Jon reveals his true connection to Ghost.


	5. the dragon and the thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany explores the garden; Jon reveals his secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking updates maybe once a week, as I'm really taking my time with this fic. I'm very excited about it and because of my SHEER EXCITEMENT I COULD NOT WAIT TO SHARE THIS BIT OF NEWS:
> 
> I commisioned the fantastic, amazing, talented, and absolutely wonderful treasure of the Jonerys fandom [Dragon_and_Direwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf) for a piece of art to accompany this fic!!!! It is beautiful, came out exactly how I envisioned, and I CANNOT stop staring at it and sighing in sheer Jonerys love. Thank you so much again DragonandDirewolf for such a beautiful piece of art!! Check out her TUMBLR for more glorious art: [@dragonanddirewolf](https://dragonanddirewolf.tumblr.com)
> 
> It's slightly spoilery but I couldn't wait! It has already been posted on her Tumblr and I've added it at the end of this fic. So read on!

"Jon....hey Jon..."

Dany lightly nudges him, hovering over his face, hoping that the dirt still under her fingernails didn't muss up his bed linens too much-- else he would have some explaining to do. She wanted to keep the garden a secret between them; for now. She tugged her lower lip between her top teeth, scraping nervously. He was still weak from his fever, even if it had broken and she did not want to truly upset him or disturb him during recovery.

He blinked a few times, before gasping, grabbing back at the mattress, chest muscles clenching in surprise when he realized she was practically on top of him. "Gods! Fuck... _Dany_!"

She giggled, pushing lightly at him and sliding onto the bed beside him, face still inches from his, too excited to contain herself. "I got in!"

"Got in what?" he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, still recovering from the shock of her waking him up in such an odd fashion. Jon blinked a few times, gazing around the room, iron irises constricting at the dim candlelight from just his bedside. He shifted to accommodate her, pushing back against the headboard, resting his cheek on his pillow, so they were almost nose to nose, each on their side. He arched his dark brows, curious, silently asking her for more information.

Ghost hopped onto the bed, somehow his coat still pristine white despite running through the dirt and mud with her only moments ago. He huffed, rolling red eyes to her, waiting for her explanation as much as Jon. Another high giggle slipped between her parted lips; she was not prone to such frivolity, but she could not help herself right now. It was as if her dreams were coming true; well, most of them at least. “I found it,” she repeated. She reached into the pocket of her dress, removing the key.

Using her skirts she had cleaned it off as best she could, the rusted iron no longer as dull as it had been, with a slight glint off the ornate handle, which she had noticed resembled a rose. It took a moment for Jon to focus, for him to understand what it meant, and when he did, he smiled, a genuine smile, his eyes lighting up the same as hers. “The key,” he said.

“Yes, the key. Ghost helped me.”

Jon’s fingers rested gently on the wolf’s flank. “Yes, he is good for that.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, thinking back on the garden, the potential it had to be something truly glorious. The weirwood still standing, its trunk blinding and its leaves as red as Ghost’s eyes. The vines of dried roses, just needing some tending and maybe they could return to their glory. She could hardly stand it, seeing the images in her mind, the ability to transform it. It gave her purpose, something to enjoy and look forward to, in this dark and sad world she’d found herself in. It would be like Valyria, she decided, a beautiful place for people to smile and laugh. Some light in the dark. She sighed, eyes twinkling, and reaching her hand to lightly touch Jon’s, which was resting gently on the pillow they shared. “I think it could be something really special.”

It made her happy, to have finally found the inside of the mysterious garden, but she could sense that while he was pleased, she had located the key, could get inside, the smile from a moment before had faded, lips pressed into a line, and the glow in his eyes shuttered dark. “You aren’t happy about this?” Dany asked, confused, brow flickering.

“I am,” he insisted. The sad look crossed his pale face once more. “Just…no one has been in there since…since it happened.”

She hadn’t realized that, foolishly. Dany mentally smacked herself upside the head for her callousness. “Oh Jon, I am so sorry,” she murmured, immediately clutching his hand. He squeezed it back. His strength had slowly returned, given the force with which he held her fingers now than how he had held them while she sat at his bedside the past few days. “I had no idea, I completely forgot.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose, his breath ruffling the cuff of her sleeve. “I won’t say it is fine, but…” He turned his head and she followed his gaze, to the painting of his mother. “My mother would want someone to enjoy a place where she was happiest.”

“But still, there’s so much pain there.”

“Aye, but there was good too.”

Dany nodded, thinking of Valyria. It was a ruined place now, but it had been a source of such beauty before. If someone could return it to that one day, she would be forever grateful. She wondered if Lyanna Stark would feel the same about her garden. “I felt like Ghost was happy there too,” she whispered, looking to the wolf. He had frolicked around in the dried leaves and vines like a young pup, tail wagging so furiously his entire body shook. It was like he drew power from the earth his feet danced upon.

If anything it seemed Jon was stronger as well, what little color he had on a good day returning to his cheeks. He moved slightly, head turning towards the door. She stilled, following his worried look, but the door remained shut and whatever had him looking seemed to fade, his body relaxing back into the mattress and pillow. He closed his eyes, whispering. “How long did you sit with me?”

“All day,” she answered, sheepish.

Heavy eyelids sprang open, surprise sparking. “All day?”

“Yes, I wanted to be sure that you were alright. You were shaking and sweating, and I worried…” Dany trailed off, setting her jaw. She didn’t want to say the words, even though Aemon told her that fearing the words meant fearing the thing itself. She sighed, squeezing his hand tight, to his surprise again, his shoulders jumping a bit. She scowled. “I don’t know if you heard me, but I told you that if you left me, I would kill you myself. I just met you and learned and…and I couldn’t have you leave so soon.”

He smiled, amused. “Aye?”

“Aye,” she mocked.

Jon smiled again. He took the key, still in her fingers, and ran his thumb over the rose-hilt of it. Beneath the age, it could have been iron or bronze, Dany wasn’t sure. She would like to clean it once she got back to her rooms. She would need to put it on a string, so she did not lose it, and keep it with her always, tucked beneath the high collars of her blouses. If anything she could tuck it in her hair, her braids always bound up in such a way that no one would even notice; they’d think it a hairpin.

He glanced at her once more. “The garden was my mother’s, but it was here long before she came to live at Dragonstone. The weirwood trees…they’re ancient.”

“I read about them, I hope you don’t mind, I took some of your books.”

“I took them from Aemon, so…”

They laughed. She thought he was quite comely when he laughed, his dark curls about his shadowed face. She touched the key again. “The weirwoods are magic, are they not?”

“If you believe in that sort of thing.” Jon’s eyes shadowed again. Like shutters closing out the sun. Or in this case, anyone from peering into them, perhaps to see what he was truly thinking. Dany frowned briefly; she didn’t want him to hide from her. Too much had been hidden since she arrived here, she did not want Jon to start now. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Believe in magic?”

Valyria sat atop ancient magic, where dragons came from fires beneath the Fourteen Flames. People from as far as the Shadowlands beyond Assha’i would come to Valyria to learn, to find artifacts and explore the gifts of the otherworlds. _Magic_ , as it were. “I am a Targaryen, from Valyria,” she said, smiling, her head ducking a little on the pillow, almost to touch her nose to his, whispering: “I am magic.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. He reached over suddenly, gripping her hand. He was still weak, but she sensed strength within him as well, returning the grip with a mighty one of her own. “Targaryens are magic, as are Starks.”

“The Starks believe in the Old Gods? The ones the Children prayed to through the trees?”

He nodded. His hand released hers, moving to rest upon Ghost again. He curled his fingers into Ghost’s neck. “My mother believed the garden was magic, more so than the Old Gods smiling from the weirwood. It had been there for ages, untended, and she began to see to it. That’s where Rhaegar met her. In the garden.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “No wonder it hurts him so.”

“Aye. It made her happy, they married there, and I was born there.” He chuckled. “It’s kind of the end all and be all of this family I suppose.”

“And Rhaegar locked it away, let it die, after your mother…” Dany trailed off, not wanting to say it aloud. Although Jon nodded.

“Hmm.”

Well it would not be dead for much longer. It needed to be tended, it could be as beautiful as it used to be. Dany would see to it. It gave her purpose, something she desperately needed. She missed her mother, she missed Valyria, and with no love from Rhaegar, she needed something to distract her. She sat up slightly, leaning back on her elbow, peering down at Jon. “You should sleep,” she announced. “You’re still recovering.”

“It happens ometimes. The fevers.”

“Well we won’t have any more of them.”

Jon twisted a little in the bed, watching her get up and walk over to pour him a glass of water. He frowned. “You can’t just stop a fever you know.”

“Yes I can.” Dany smiled. She arched her brows. “My mother always said that to stop sickness you need fresh air.”

The gray eyes staring back at her flickered with panic. “No,” he said.

“Hmm, we’ll see. Until you are fully recovered. You rest.”

Jon leaned back again, taking the glass from her. He sipped the water and set it aside on the table next to him, before he reclined back again. “Tell me something, before I fall asleep,” he said.

“Alright.” Dany wasn’t sure why her heart skipped a few beats, the huskiness in his voice alighting inside of her belly. She sat down on the side of the bed again. Jon took her hand, threading his fingers into hers. She stroked his hand, the underside of her palm twitching when his thumb moved across it. The lump in her throat grew to a rock. She coughed. “What would you like me to tell you?”

“Anything.”

“Anything? My Jon, that’s quite a bit.”

Jon closed his eyes, exhaling, his breath tickling the curls of hair on the side of his face back. The tangle of it on his head made him appear to have a crown. He looked nothing like Rhaegar at first glance, with his Northern features. It took her a moment to realize that it was the squint of his eyes that were Rhaegar’s. The curl of his upper lip when he frowned. The pinch of his brows when he concentrated. She smiled. “Go on then,” he mumbled.

Dany thought of what she could possibly tell him. She’d already given him stories of Valyria; they’d spoken about it at their dinners and occasionally when she would break her fast with him. If anything she had more questions for him, wanting to hear his tales of the North, to give life to the stories from the books. “Um…well…” she racked her mind for something. Anything. She warmed a little. “I have dreams sometimes.”

“Dreams?”

“Like I’m flying,” she whispered. She hadn’t told anyone about them. The _dragon dreams_. She relaxed further into the bed, still holding his hand. Her skirts rustled with the movement and she drew her knee under her. “Sometimes I dream that things might happen before they do. Just outlines of them. I dreamt that the world grew hot and lonely, awaking to the sounds of the first volcanoes rumbling and the Doom happened. Once I feared that my mother might break her arm and two days later her horse threw her.” She wondered if she had ever dreamed of him. Thus far, she hadn’t.

Although she had dreamed of the man, the shadow whose face she could not see. It was private though, so she kept her lips pressed shut on that particular dream. She told him about the dreams of the garden, about flying on the back of a great dragon. “There are three dragons,” she whispered. “I always thought it was myself, mother, and maybe Viserys, but now I wonder if it’s myself, Rhaegar, and Aemon…and you are the wolf.”

Jon did not answer, because he had fallen asleep. She smiled, leaning forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It came so naturally to her; she had not meant to do so. Except he was lying there, still and calm. She wondered if anyone had seen him to sleep like this since his mother. Rhaegar did not strike her as someone to sit at his son’s bedside, not when he locked him away, frightened of his own son.

After a bit, Dany got to her feet, fatigue setting in from the rush of finding the garden and hurrying back to Jon. She ruffled Ghost’s head, knowing that Jon was in good care with his wolf, and left the room, going to hers and closing the door quietly, so as not to wake anyone who might be wandering at that time of night.

The key glinted at her from her bedside table, after she had changed and cleaned up as best she could. She undid her hair, flipping one of her braids idly through her fingers, staring at the iron object. Tomorrow she would start on cleaning more. She had to raze the ruin before she could plant new. She’d figure out the rest as soon as possible.

Dany smiled, blowing out the candle, and flopped back onto her bed, eager to sleep. She wanted to see what her dreams were about that night.

And to her surprise, when she awoke the following morning, she had dreamed of him. Her shadow lover, only he had a face this time. She smiled into her pillow, feeling butterflies dancing about her belly. The lover’s face was Jon.

Aemon told her Targaryens felt deeply, loved passionately, and were drawn to each other. She gazed to the window, across to the west wing, and saw her shawl still dangling from the curtain in Jon’s room. She giggled, shoving her face into her pillow, closing her eyes for just a few moments more, to disappear back into the dreams.

“Grey?”

The young man looked away from Missandei, who had captured his attention as she rummaged in the pantry. Dany smiled, knowing that they were obviously courting, even as they attempted to hide it from the rest of the house. He smiled politely at her, his deep brown eyes appearing to be molten chocolate, kind and waiting for her. “Yes Lady Daenerys?”

“Dany, please.” Grey nodded, but she knew he would ignore her, as he had for months now. He was nothing but proper. Dany tapped her fingers on her elbows, her arms crossed over her chest. She had pinned up her skirts to her knees, as she had a mind to sneak to the garden again and was wearing her trousers and boots beneath her limited petticoats. She tried to remain nonchalant. “I was wondering if you could provide me with some gardening tools?” She hastily continued, at Grey’s quick wide-eyed look. “Perhaps a trowel and spade?”

Only Missy seemed to understand what she spoke about, her friend’s dark eyes gaping at her, mouth slightly ajar, shocked. She mouthed over the top of Grey’s head, only where Dany could see: _”You found it?”_

Dany simply nodded quickly, continuing when Grey said nothing. He cast a glance askance to Davos, who had entered the kitchen, bringing in a slight chill from the outside and the comforting scent of hay and oats from the stables. He pulled off his cap, running a hand over his gray hair. He chuckled; his brogue thick. “What are you looking at me for, Grey? What did I miss?” He glanced to Dany, smiling warmly. “Lady Daenerys, you look as though you are going for a ride, do you want me to saddle up Tessarion?”

“Um, no, I was actually just asking Grey for some gardening tools, if there are any to spare.” She fiddled with a stray thread on the cuff of her sleeve, not taking in Davos’s look, but she was sure he was equally surprised. A fine lady such as herself would never do the gardening herself, she imagined, in this stuffy and refined country. She smiled and lied through her teeth. “In Valyria I often tended a small garden with my mother, I wanted to do so again in her memory, so long as the weather keeps.”

It was something close to the truth; Rhaella would walk with her through gardens, but they did not tend to them themselves, but her mother did love flowers. It seemed just like Lyanna Stark had. She swallowed the nerves back. “And perhaps some seeds?”

“Seeds?” Grey echoed.

“Hmm, maybe whatever extra you may have on hand?”

Davos chuckled. “Lady Daenerys I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Lord Rhaegar is not one for flowers on the estate, we do not have any ah… _seeds_.”

“Oh, well…” She hadn’t thought of that. There was no point to the garden if she couldn’t try to plant some new flowers. Not that she knew a damned thing about planting seeds or anything; she had yet to get a new batch of books from Samwell and unfortunately the only ones that Aemon seemed to have in his repository of tomes were about ancient plant types, not so much the process of growing them. Nothing quite useful there. She pursed her lips, but thankfully it was Missandei to the rescue.

Missandei came to hand Davos a mug of the hot beverage Dany had yet to acquire a taste for, some sort of smashed bean that produced a strong bitter aroma, they called it _coffee_. She knew Jon drank it like he’d never have another cup of it again. “I believe Lady Daenerys would like to bring some cheer to the estate, especially in Lord Rhaegar’s absence. It can be quite dreary, and Essos is full of bright colors.”

 _Thank you_ , she silently said to her friend, who smiled behind Davos’s back, slipping out of the kitchens to the back staircase, to continue with her chores. Dany nodded smartly. “Yes, while my brother is gone, I think I might like to bring some light to the estate. I live here now. I’m the Lady of Dragonstone Manor, after all.”

Davos swished his bushy moustache around, reaching to stroke it idly with his good hand; his other was missing the tops of his fingers and he kept it sheathed in a glove at all times. “Hmm, flowers…well…” He chuckled, his eyebrows still lifted and studying her with suspicion, but he nodded to Grey. “Go on then lad, fetch Lady Daenerys a few of the tools we use for the hedges.”

She grinned. “Thank you, Ser Davos!”

“Just Davos, milady.” He studied her again, his clear blue eyes quite analyzing. Dany wasn’t sure exactly how much she wanted to divulge to anyone. The garden was her secret right now. She wanted to keep it that way. Davos might tell Rhaegar, for no reason other than Rhaegar did own the estate, he was the one in charge. She didn’t want Rhaegar to know a thing about what she was doing, or what she even knew.

_Let him have a taste of his own medicine._

She followed Grey to the gardening shed, attached to the stables, heart beating quickly as he passed her a pail with some tools. “Do you have an area you would like to work in?” he asked.

“Ah…just in the Wolfswood a bit. Do not worry, I just want to um, play around a bit before I figure where exactly on the grounds, I would like to plant my garden.”

Grey frowned, also a bit confused, but he nodded, gesturing towards the door. “Alright, well if you need anything else.”

“I’ll let you know, thank you!”

Dany waited for Grey to return to the stables, where Davos was walking out Rhaegar’s enormous black stallion to exercise. One she was satisfied their backs were turned and they were focused on controlling the wild beast, she hurried off towards the Wolfswood, the small tools in her pail clanging around and the key on the twine around her neck beating against her breast, in tandem with her heart.

“Ghost, a little help, please?”

Ghost rolled on his back, a dapple of sunlight peeking through the red leaves of the weirwood and the blanket of clouds that were ever present. He hopped to his feet, trotting over to the corner of the garden where she was trying to tug down a particularly angry snake of dried vines, which seemed to have taken permanent root within the brick wall. Her hands were dirty and scuffed; she would have to ask for gloves next time.

The wolf took hold of the vine in his teeth, yanking with her. “Ah!” she exclaimed, toppling backwards, her skirts flying over her head. She landed hard on the ground, grumbling and fighting with the woolen fabric sticking to her sweaty hair. The up-do she’d put her braids into that morning was falling apart, pins astray. She clamored back to her feet and huffed, brushing leaves from her skirts. Ghost opened and close his mouth, tail wagging in a manner that she assumed was a wolf version of laughing. “Not funny,” she groused.

She had made progress in some of the areas, grateful for the trowel to churn up the dirt and assist in removing some of the stubborn dried plants. She wasn’t sure what to do with them, so for now she just piled them in a corner; perhaps she would burn them at a later date. Definitely before Rhaegar got back; he would sure come sniffing if there was smoke flying above the forest.

They were enjoying themselves; her and Ghost. There was a lovely little bench before the weirwood and she had walked around it, inspecting the face of the heart-tree, the dripping red sap from its eyes and mouth. It could have been crying, laughing, smiling, or grimacing, she supposed that was why it was a tree for the gods. “If you feel any one of those emotions, you might come here to pray,” she voiced her thoughts aloud.

She went over to massive bunches of vines, a few hours after she had already been clearing out the dried ones on another wall. The vines that remained green, she kept. There was truly something mystical about the spade-like leaves in varying shades that trickled over the top of the stone and the moss beneath. Dany could see it in its glory, bright green with lovely red roses and perhaps even other flowers she had seen in the books, some of the ones they did not have in Valyria, maybe white daisies or smiling golden sunflowers or purple violets and pink peonies.

Ghost followed her this time, standing sentry. She glanced into his red eyes; they had changed again. She was starting to notice the shift. Sometimes when he gazed at her they were brighter, merrier almost, and then other times it was like his pupils were wider, the red darker, and almost as though there were gray around the rims. Her voice softened. “What are yous taring at?”

He looked at the bunches along this side of the wall, but kept quiet, his usual silent self. She frowned, hands on her hips, studying them. They were broken and browned, dried out from neglect. She approached one, realizing that it was a rose. “Huh,” she whispered, her thumb dragging on the dried petal. It fell to the ground, disintegrating to dust. She looked at another, touching it lightly and it did the same. She sighed. “Maybe I can bring them back.”

As she cleaned the roses, carefully so as not to cut herself on the thorns, she realized that they were hiding something. Her hands clutched mindlessly, pain a sharp sting in her palms as the thorns pierced her skin. The rest of the dried flowers gave way an she realized that it wasn’t a column that was behind the rose bush, but a statue. “A wolf,” she whispered, staring at it in awe.

It was probably originally gray, darkened black from age, moss creeping up the pedestal. The wolf was almost dancing, on hind legs and rearing back, head tossed into a howl. She pulled more of the roses from it, revealing the face, the way the sculptor had carved the eyes and nose, as though there were a real wolf beneath the stone. She laughed. “Amazing.”

Ghost dug around nearby and she followed, helping him with his movements, his eyes darkening when she revealed another pedestal, another statue. This one was a dragon. Mouth open, tongue curling out, it was mid-breath, and she could imagine fire coming from its jaws, its wings outspread. She glanced at the wolf in the corner. _Lyanna._ And then the dragon. “Rhaegar.”

Except Ghost wasn’t done. He moved to the middle of the wall. She thought it was an alcove at first glance and she had wondered maybe there should be a pot or urn there, overflowing with some sort of winding plant, but there was already something there, between the two statues that flanked the corners. There was a pool that came out a bit from the wall, filled now with dark stinking water, stagnant from the rains that likely had it overflowing most days. She reached to push aside a curtain of vines and stared at the statue that sat in the alcove, her heart breaking all over.

A wolf cub, she thought it might have been, rolling in the wings of a dragon. She smiled, glancing at Ghost, his dark gaze still there. “Jon?” she questioned. Ghost lowered his head; maybe he was nodding. She nodded and smoothed her hand on the cool stone, which soothed her reddened and cut skin. Dany looked around again, shaking her head. “This really was Lyanna’s favorite place, it seems.”

Peace came to her there, even as she ached from exertion, sweat staining the blouse of her dress and some of the lace torn down the front, smudged in dirt. Missandei and Gilly were going to have her hide. She took a seat at one of the benches; she had found two more, one each between the statues along the stretch of wall, she gathered was the northernmost one. The east wall housed the vines she had torn down that day, the west was still a mess of rotten twigs, and the south facing wall was the door. On either side of the door she could envision more benches, maybe even a small table. Or more bushes, she just wasn’t sure what kind.

It was a truly magical place. She could feel it coming from the weirwood, which did not show any age, as though it had been planted just yesterday. Her fingers reached up to lightly touch one of the red leaves, dusting down with a gust of wind, smiling and watching the branch bounce back up slightly. Ghost lay at her feet, curving around the small bench and she reached down to touch his ears. He flicked a look up to her again. He drew power from this place, she decided. Maybe it was just fanciful wonderings, but he was calm in the walls of the garden.

As she worked, when he wasn’t helping her or laying around, he was sitting before the weirwood. Sometimes Dany thought he was staring at the face. Ghost was no ordinary wolf, that much was absolutely certain. Jon was a warg, she had decided, everything fit. Ghost was the skin he used, the animal he put on when he let his eyes go white and he disappeared. When he _went away_ , as Sam and Gilly had said.

“I think we’re almost done for the day; they will be wondering where I am.” Dany had missed luncheon, not an uncommon occurrence, but she didn’t want anyone coming into the woods to look for her. “You ready to go back?”

Ghost didn’t answer, of course, but he walked over to her as she finished wrestling some of the vines. She pulled a little too hard, gasping in pain as one of the thorns broke from the roses, embedding itself in her hand. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!” she exclaimed, jumping in place and hissing, staring at the nasty bugger that was sticking out of her palm, blood trickling around it. She grit her teeth. “Fuck!” She didn’t normally curse, but this hurt!

Ghost nosed her palm, but she pulled back, wincing as she removed the thorn as best she could, scowling at the cut it left in her hand. She _really_ needed to swipe a pair of gloves from the stables tomorrow. She reached under her skirt, tugging at one of the petticoats, ripping a bit of fabric from the edge, and used it to staunch the light bleeding. She wrapped the strip around her palm, nodding smartly. “Guess I have a war wound now,” she said to Ghost. She nodded to the door. “Come on then.”

They left the garden, Ghost giving one more longing look to the weirwood. She closed the door, thinking it would do with a fresh coat of paint—one thing at a time—locking it carefully again.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered, touching her fingers to the worn wood, smiling up at the red leaves creeping from over top of the wall. They rustled and Dany wondered if she didn’t hear the tree speaking, the spirits of whatever remained in the garden.

_See you tomorrow._

That evening she missed supper with Jon, as she was busy being scrubbed down to death by Missandei, who kept muttering about how there wasn’t enough soap in the kingdoms for her nails. “They’re black with dirt!” she exclaimed, taking a coarse brush to them as Dany winced, trying to sink deeper into the steaming water of the tub to soothe at her sore muscles. Missandei shook her head, slightly amused. “You’re going to have to explain this to Lord Rhaegar.”

“Like he’ll notice my fingernails.”

“He notices everything.”

Dany wasn’t sure about that; he didn’t seem to notice that his son clearly wanted a father to care for him, didn’t notice that Jon was _not_ as ill as he had been led to believe his entire life. She kept her mouth closed; she would see about what Rhaegar actually noticed whenever he came back. “How long does he usually go when he visits Winterfell?” she wondered, while Missandei dug dirt out from under one of her nails. She didn’t feel like telling the poor girl that tomorrow they would be just as dirty, as she fully intended to return to the garden. She one-handedly ran oil through her hair, tilting her head to get the ends of the ropes of silver wet.

Missandei shrugged, giving up on her thumbnail, and stood, walking over to get some towels for Dany as she finally finshed with her hair. “It depends sometimes. He says he will leave for about a month or so, but eventually he adds more time. He does not always go to Winterfell, he often finds a reason to go elsewhere. To Riverrun or he takes a ship to check on the castle at Dragonstone.”

“The real Dragonstone?”

“Yes, the castle is in some disrepair, it is too large for just Lord Rhaegar.”

Dany frowned, huddling under the massive fluffy towel wrapped around her body. “And Jon,” she murmured.

The maid barely glanced up from taking Dany’s robe off the back hook of the door. “Yes,” she murmured, turning and handing it to her, taking the used towel. “And Lord Jon.”

 _Lord Jon._ It sounded like a made-up title. Dany pulled her robe on, thanked Missandei, and waited for her friend to leave before she exchanged the robe for her nightgown and then another thicker robe to cover it, shoving her feet into slippers. She braided her hair quickly, tying the end and throwing it over her shoulder, but it remained loose, strands falling around her face. She lit a candle, holding her hand around it as she slowly crept down the halls.

Just about everyone who tended to Jon knew that she visited him, save for a few of the servants who only came in during the day and left at night. She still felt odd though, just storming down the halls to his room. She did not think she would be alright with it until she could get him out of the room and until Rhaegar knew. She would have to have a conversation with him whenever he returned. She pushed into the room without knocking on the door, seeing Jon in his chair, reading.

“Anything interesting?”

He snapped the book shut, his pale cheeks pinking a bit when he saw her. “You should knock,” he mumbled, shoving the book between him and the arm of the chair, in the cushion. He scowled. “Why do you look so happy?”

“Why do you look so dour?”

“Because you did not come to me at all today.” He was very put out by it, evidenced from his pinched frown and pouty lips, which made Dany smile. It was his childish response that had her rolling her eyes, however. He glanced at her hands, still nicked up from the rose thorns. The one that had stabbed her prevented her from really closing her hand, but it would heal soon enough. It was no longer bleeding and she did not require a bandage. He pointed to her hand. “Those rose thorns are pretty tough.”

She glanced at her palm. “Yes, they were really sharp…” _Wait…how did he know they were roses?_ She cocked her head, walking over to sit on the arm of the chair, hands going to her knee. “Wait a moment…” He looked away at her frown. “How do you know that it was roses? I didn’t say anything yet about them.”

“No reason. Just a guess.”

She reached around and gripped his chin, surprising him, and forcing his head back to look at her. She stared into his eyes, the iron color constantly distracting her for a brief moment before she noticed the slight shuttering in them, the way they darkened as they gazed at her. She swallowed, ignoring the little spark in her belly from the look. “We…we need to be truthful with each other,” she murmured. They were in this together. Bringing the garden back. She let go of his face, hands going back to her lap. “Otherwise I see no reason to continue speaking with you.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Just leave me alone,” he pouted, slumping in the chair, his black robe and blankets shifting with the movement. He glared at the fire, his fingers digging into the arm of his chair and his other hand curling in the blanket. “You’re always messing in things you shouldn’t.”

“You wanted me to go to the garden too!”

“Aye, but you keep pushing things you shouldn’t.”

She jumped to her feet, arms folding over her chest. “Well I’m so sorry… _Lord Snow!_ ”

He jerked his head up. “Snow!?”

“Aye,” she mocked his accent, hands falling to her sides now. “Because you are behaving like a bastard! Is stubbornness a Northern trait or is it just Rhaegar in you?” Jon remained sullen, not saying anything, that brooding look returning. She sighed. “You are quick to sense a slight. I meant no offense over anything; you’re just behaving like a brat.”

“Brat!?” He glowered, slumping even further, which she imagined could not be could for his back. He mumbled; eyes fixed on the fire. “Well who wouldn’t be? Broken nothing like me.”

 _You’re not broken. Just bent. And things can be unbent._ She arched her brows, walking around to stand in front of the fire, fingers tracing one of the wolves engraved in the large ornate mantlepiece. “I’m going to ask you something and I would really like an answer, because I think I already know.” _How else would he know of the roses, surely?_ She kept tracing the wolves, over and over, nails scratching lightly on the wood. “What is warging? Truly, what is it? And don’t give me the book answer, for I have read enough of those.”

The only sound filling the room were the soft snores of Ghost at his feet and the crackling wood in the hearth. He dropped his fingers, where he’d been rubbing at the back of his neck and leaned slightly over to touch Ghost’s head. The wolf instantly woke, looking to his master. Jon stared at her, while his hand remained on Ghost. He lifted his hand, the wolf rising and walking from the room. Dany wasn’t sure where he was going; especially since Jon had said nothing. “Go to the other room,” he whispered, after a good ten minutes of studying her, of peculiar silence and an odd sort of scan of her. Dany hadn’t moved, waiting for Jon to finish whatever assessment he was making.

Dany crossed her arms again. “What?”

“Just do it. Go across the hall to the other room. Close the door.”

She had no idea what was happening, but she figured that she might as well do it, if it would get her the answer she wanted. She huffed, walking out of the room and across the hallway, into the room, closing the door behind her. Ghost was waiting. It was another guest room, the hearth empty, drapes pulled, and coverings over the furniture, an eerie ghostly quality about it. “What is going on? Your master is quite stupid I think,” she said. She went to the window, pulling back one of the curtains and coughing at the dust. She frowned at the blackness of the moors, shaking her head. “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow.”

After a few minutes, she had no idea what was going on and she did not want to stand in the cold room any longer, so she left, Ghost coming with her. She went into Jon’s room again, returning to him, and saw that his eyes were white. It would have terrified her like it first did, if she hadn’t grown used to occasionally seeing him like that. _Going away_ , they called it. She waited, until his eyes rolled back, returning to gray. He smirked. “So I’m stupid huh?”

She frowned. “What?”

“You said I was stupid. You also looked out the window and wondered if it was going to rain. I believe it will, my legs ache more when it rains.” He was smiling, except it was not mocking her, or teasing. It was just a fact, his fingers scratching at the wolf’s giant head, red eyes staring at her, the way they occasionally were, the bright look, not the shuttered one.

_Oh._

It hit her, to truly see it in practice, what the books said. It wasn’t what she thought it was, although she really didn’t know what she thought it would be. “You saw me?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Through Ghost?” She knelt, reaching for the wolf, who walked into her hands, which stroked along his soft muzzle. “Extraordinary…”

“He’s my eyes.” Jon touched Ghost again, fondly gazing at the wolf. “And my legs. He’s a part of me. Truly a part of me.”

 _Unbelievable._ “You close your eyes and you see through this?” she asked, just confirming it for real. It was amazing. “So when they go dark, but yours go white…”

“That’s me.” He laughed. “You’re the only one who has ever noticed it.”

“So you have seen the garden,” Dany whispered. She moved to kneel at his side, her hand lightly touching his thigh. He reached for her hand, covering it with his. She squeezed his fingers. This meant something entirely different now. “You’ve seen the garden and the tree and…”

He nodded, barely smiling again, whispering. “It’s not like how it was. It’s different, but…”

“You seem stronger. Healthier.” It wasn’t just recovering from the fever. There was more color to his face. His grip on her hand was tighter. He was sitting up again, somewhat straighter. _Maybe it is the garden._ Ghost had been alive, more than ever, in that garden. “Maybe it’s the tree,” she wondered out loud. “The weirwood…the garden…the roses.”

“My mother.”

They exchanged another look. This meant that he was able to _run_. Through Ghost, but he could at least see the outside, could run through the heather and pounce through the forest. She remembered when she had come to him and Ghost was out and about, he knew that Ghost had been hunting, even smacking his lips. _Amazing._ “You should come out to the garden,” she said. She was working up to asking him. She wanted to clean it up some more, make it easier for him to either walk with his crutches or roll the chair.

Dany had no idea when the last time he was out of his room was, but she guessed it was quite some time, because his face went ashen. “No,” he blurted.

“Yes.”

“No! I can’t leave this room.” It was his safe haven, she understood. It was where he had what he needed; he had been downright conditioned to believe he could not leave. Dany would not accept that. It would be good for him, to get real air, and not through Ghost.

Dany squinted. “And who determined you can’t leave this room?”

Jon waited a beat, wryly smiling. “The gods,” he whispered.

 _Gods._ Dany smirked again, leaning in, hands going to either side of his thighs, their noses almost brushing. “Don’t you know Jon?” He cocked his head, silently questioning. She laughed softly, hovering her lips over his. “We are Targaryens.”

He breathed. “And?”

Dany gave another throaty laugh. “Oh Jon. It means…we are dragons. We answer to neither gods nor men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Jon shares some more information about the accident to Dany; Jon and Dany grow even closer, after Jon makes a huge step ;)


	6. dragons in a garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany makes headway on the garden, Jon spills some secrets, and two dragons enjoy the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one! Makes up for the fact I won't have the next chapter for a bit as I have been very busy with work (even teleworking they still manage to get me). Also having some writer's block with some one-shot/drabbles. Guess the atmosphere on AO3 and in the fandom at the moment has me reluctant to post, I've seen a lot of whiners and honestly really stupid people out there and it is so demotivating. I'll see what I can come up with otherwise, but no promises on anything other than updates to this fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  


There was a chill blanketing most of the estate that kept Dany from hurrying straight from her bed to the garden every day. She ended up with a case of sniffles, blowing her nose and cursing the fact she hadn’t gone back inside as soon as it started to rain a couple days before, with barely even a coat to wear when she’d been in the garden. She was also trying to figure out how best to ask for hedge clippers or a rake or something larger than the few little tools she’d been able to pilfer from Grey and Davos.

And with the chill, she worried about getting any seeds and actually planting anything. It was _not_ ideal. So she ended up doing the best she could to sit with Jon, either reading or playing games like cyvasse, which she did not have the patience for and neither did Jon, so they ended up mostly arguing and giving up after a few hours or so. She wondered what else Jon did with his days. Sometimes she would arrive after spending time with Aemon and find that he did exercises to keep up his strength—she wondered how he had so many muscles in his chest and then found him doing push-ups on the floor when she came into his room one day. 

It was his legs that seemed not willing to work. She wasn’t sure if it was medical though. Jon seemed fine to her. Except for periods where he refused to leave his bed or his room, where he wouldn’t eat and he would spend what amounted to days inside of Ghost. She once sat with him in his room for over five hours and not once did he open his eyes and return to himself. He’d been in Ghost the whoel time. Hadn’t really explained why, other than to just say that sometimes “it happened.” Whatever that meant, she supposed. 

She didn’t understand him. “You know the first night I followed Rhaegar here, when I first saw you, you were complaining to him about how you couldn’t leave the room. Yet, you never want to leave,” she complained. She scowled. “Explain that inconsistency to me.”

Jon had been reading. He turned a page, sighing. “Sometimes I feel like if I leave the room things will change. Until I realize they won’t. So why fight it?” He shrugged again. “Other times I just like to piss off Rhaegar.”

“Why do you call him that?” she asked him, on another evening. They had been playing cards. She hated cards and Jon was too good, as he had no tells, while her eyebrows couldn’t hide any of her emotions when she started getting irritated or losing. She picked up one, glaring at the number. She needed threes and all she was getting was _trash._ “If I had a father, I think I would refer to him as such.” She picked up another card, cursing in Valyrian.

He set down his cards, forcing her to fold, and swept up the ‘winnings’, which were candies that Gilly had made. He popped one into his mouth, chewing for a moment before dealing them a new game. “Would you call Rhaegar ‘Father’ when all he does is expect you to die and treat you like it every day of your life? It’s easier.” 

“I guess.” 

Rhaegar had been gone about six weeks when she finally went to Aemon with that day’s mail, passing Samwell a few letters from some of Aemon’s Maester friends. She picked up one that was address to her and scanned through it, rolling her eyes. “Rhaegar will be gone for some time it seems,” she said. It was a very perfunctory letter. 

_Dear Sister,_

_I will be away for longer than anticipated. The Duke of Winterfell had procured me an opportunity to meet with the Archmaester of the Citadel. I do not know when I will return. Do keep Uncle Aemon company. Stay out of trouble._

_Your brother,  
Rhaegar, Earl of Dragonstone_

“Stay out of trouble?” Jon chuckled. “I am sure that means don’t go looking in the west wing, stay away from your crippled nephew, and definitely don’t go sniffing around the garden in the woods.”

“Most likely.” Dany folded the letter, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. She crossed her legs and arms, pondering on the implications of the letter. The longer Rhaegar stayed away, certainly the better for her. As well as for Jon. Although the Citadel? “Why would he go to the Citadel?” she wondered. “Isn’t that where all the Maesters train? Do you think he’s going to become one?”

“Fuck no, Rhaegar doesn’t have the patience.” Jon slumped a bit in his chair. He glanced into the fire. He sighed. “Probably looking for a cure.”

“Cure?”

“For me.”

Dany wrinkled her nose; the only cure that Jon required was a kick up his bum. She was working on it. Once the garden was free of some of the nasty brambles and large rocks, she could get his chair out there. Until such time he could walk himself, she had decided, because surely, he would be able to do so himself. He could move around his room and to the drawing room well enough on his crutches. “You don’t need a cure,” she said. “You can walk. You just need to get out and see it for yourself.”

He scowled. “It’s not as easy as that.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’m not fighting with you,” she sniffed.

“Sure seems like it.”

They fought most often over his reluctance to leave the room. The house, really, since he would at least sit in the drawing room on the floor. She knew he could see the outdoors, the garden and sit by the weirwood tree as Ghost, but maybe if he actually went and _faced_ the tree, actually could see the garden where he had been born, where he had in essence become who he was, it might do good for him in the long run. Especially with Rhaegar gone. Rhaegar was the one who locked him away, who feared for his death and made him believe it was imminent. Jon needed to escape from that, and she was hopeful he was already doing so. 

Except then there were times when he seemed scared, huddling in his bed, refusing to get out, telling her to just leave him alone. “Don’t fight him,” Samwell told her one day, after a particularly vicious argument over how he should at least try to walk down the stairs, perhaps come see Aemon. He sighed. “He is quite stubborn.”

“Well so am I,” she mumbled, stalking away to find something else to do while Jon brooded.

He was scared, she reasoned, scared of what would happen if he actually could leave his rooms, become something, become someone. Someone Rhaegar didn’t expect him to become. 

About a week after Rhaegar’s message arrived, Davos found her in the lower-level sitting room with Aemon, having a cup of tea. It was really nice out, having freshly rained, and she was gearing up to slip on out to the garden. Ghost was likely already there. “Lady Daenerys,” Davos said, holding his hat in his hand, smiling oddly at her. “I seem to have received a delivery from town.”

“Oh?”

Aemon turned his head towards Davos. “A delivery? What did you order, Daenerys? I wish you had told me, I was hoping to acquire a new edition of the Jade Compendium.”

“I didn’t order anything Uncle Aemon.” She turned in her chair, looping her arm over the back, frowning at Davos. “What sort of delivery?”

“Came from the general store, bit bundled up, would you like me to open it? Specifically for Lady Daenerys Targaryen, the invoice said.”

She shrugged, turning back to finish off her teacup. She patted Aemon’s hand. “Excuse me Uncle, I will go see what this is about. I do not believe I ordered anything.” The last thing she had ordered was a new set of dresses, in lighter fabrics now that it was warming up some. The heavy wool just dragged her down too much, especially in the garden. 

Aemon smiled. “Do tell me what it is at supper, child. I am most curious.”

She kissed his papery thin cheek, patting his shoulder before she left the room. “As am I, Uncle. As am I.”

Dany followed Davos outside, beyond the kitchens to where the store had delivered the items. They were long and thin, wrapped in brown paper, and there was a boxed item sitting next to them. All were tied in twine, and when Davos handed her the envelope that came with them, it simply said “Dragonstone Manor; Attn: Lady Daenerys Targaryen.” She ran her finger beneath the back of the envelope, breaking the seal and plucked out a single sheet of paper. It was rather neat, typeface and listed the items contained in the package.

_1 set branch cutter, 1 set hand clippers, 1 garden hoe…._

“Oh!” she exclaimed, crumpling the paper in her hand, rushing to open up one of the packages, the paper falling aside to reveal the pristine new gardening tools. She laughed, ignoring Davos’s curious glance, hurrying to open them all up and when she pulled at the box, she squealed in delight, for lined up neatly in the box were several different packages of flower seeds. Roses, peonies, petunias, daffodils, and there were even tulips bulbs! All different kinds of flowers and even some odd-looking plants, the photos drawn on the paper packets resembling some of the more exotic ones that she was used to seeing in Essos. 

_Who did this?_ , she wondered, gathering up her box of seeds. She pointed to the other gardening objects. “I will collect these once I change into more appropriate attire, please just leave them on the back terrace.”

“Milady…”

One glance at Davos, eyebrow raised, had his mouth closing. He chuckled, picking up the tools. “Of course, milady.”

“Thank you!”

She changed, faster than she probably ever had before, reaching back to hook her skirt as she ran from her bedroom, blowing by Missy and Gilly who were carrying baskets of linens towards Aemon’s room. “Milady?” Gilly exclaimed, eyes iwdening and mouth falling slightly. “Are you well?”

“Just fine! Thank you!” She slid the last little bit of the banister, grinning as Ghost wandered in from the other room, tail wagging. She ruffled his neck, scratching hard at his head before smacking a kiss to his nose, giggling with pure delight. “It is a beautiful day Ghost! Come, let’s start.” She picked up her coat from the peg in one of the rooms by the back door, a new purchase to wear over her blouse and protect her from dirt. She picked up her box of seeds, noting that there were a few other items in there, her fingers trembling, wanting nothing more than to dive straight in and start planting. She had no idea how to go about planting anything, but she would figure it out. 

They took a few trips, Davos watching her carefully from the stables. She pretended like she was just messing around in the little area she had carved out as a decoy, near the entrance to the Wolfswood. He seemed satisfied that that was where she was working, going back into the stables. Ghost picked up one of the garden tools and trotted to the garden, while she trailed behind him. They closed the door behind them once she was inside her sanctum, the sun beaming through the clouds in scattered rays, the white weirwood almost blinding. 

“It’s time,” she mumbled, walking over to sit on the bench in front of the tree, setting the box on her knees. She poked through the seeds, reading the back of them, seeing some had instructions while others did. There were three different books on gardening and a pair of gloves. They were ladies’ gloves, small and fit better on her hands than the heavy ones she’d taken from the stables. 

They worked steadily; with the long hoe and shovel, she was able to move and break up the dirt better in the areas where she wanted to plant her flowers. She used the hedge clippers on some of the nastier and thicker vines, whooping when they finally fell, bringing more light into the garden as they fell from the tree limbs, which creaked happily as they no longer had to bear the weight of the dead vines.

“What will I do with these, Ghost?” she wondered, studying some of the roses. They were so delicate, like they were frozen in time. Just brown instead of blue or red or whatever their original color. She imagined these were the blue roses that surrounded Lyanna in the painting in Jon’s room. The ones he spoke of briefly, in the little memory he had shared with her of the garden. 

She touched one of them, frowning as her finger brushed across the stamen in the middle of the rose. “Hmm,” she mumbled. Very carefully she clipped the rose, kneeling in the recently tilled dirt and dug a little hole. She placed the middle of the rose, the petals crumpling to nothing around the space. She covered the rose carefully, patting lightly with her palm. Maybe it was stupid, but she thought she felt a shift in the air. Her hair blew lightly across her forehead and she reached to tuck it behind her ear. 

Ghost yipped, startling her. He glanced at the sky, which had begun to darken. “Oh!” She pushed back the glove and the large cuff of her coat, gasping at the time. “My gods! Ghost, why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” 

He rolled his eyes, which had darkened slightly. So Jon was inside there now, she thought with an eyeroll of her own, ruffling his ears again. She left her gardening tools, but brought her gloves and the box of seeds she hadn’t planted, and the books. She wandered towards the house, studying the spine of one of the books, which was quite nice, woven green and gold embossed title. “The Basics of Gardening,” she read, smiling to herself. That was about all she needed at this point. She was eager to start reading it, perhaps instead of losing cards to Jon, she could just read in front of the fire. Maybe even with Aemon; maybe he might like to learn about gardening. 

Too busy looking in her box, she didn’t notice that Davos had stepped inf ront of her, on the path through the back gardens towards the kitchen door. “Milady,” he said.

She yelped, jumping back, knocking into Ghost, who grumbled. “Oh Davos, you frightened me,” she laughed, hand going to her chest. She smiled politely. “I know I am out late, I lost track of time.”

Davos cocked his head. He pointed to the box. “I called upon the store today, was curious about your delivery, as it did not seem like something Lord Rhaegar would purchase. Or even Maester Aemon.” He frowned. “The purchaser had a most curious name.”

“Hmm?” Her heart thudded hard. She wasn’t so much nervous that Davos would tell Rhaegar, although he would be well within his rights to do so as the groundskeeper, as it was that he might try to stop her from going into the forest, find some noble or chivalrous reason that might keep her from her garden. _Did Davos know about the garden?_ She knew little of the groundskeeper and how long he might have been at the estate. She would have to consult Jon. 

“Aye.”

He remained quiet, while she hovered slightly, her feet feeling quite light, ready to bolt. “And?” she asked, cocking her head. “Who is my mysterious benefactor?” 

“A Master Aegon Targaryen.”

 _Aegon Targaryen, gods Jon you are a dolt_ , she thought, trying to stifle a laugh. Aegon was Jon’s real name, he’d admitted to her, but in deference to Lyanna’s Northern heritage and desire for their child to have a ‘normal’ name, Rhaegar let her call him Jon, and that was the name he was most known as, but his true name was Aegon. Not many people knew it. She wondered if Davos knew it. “Aegon Targaryen?” she echoed. She chuckled. “Is that not my ancestor?”

“It is, which is very curious to me. Clearly someone is having a laugh.” He scowled. “I just want to ensure that it is not a prank or someone with ill intent towards you.”

“Oh no, it was quite a surprise.” She tried to find a way to justify the purchases, the name Aegon on the invoice. She smiled quickly. “Aegon Targaryen, an amusing little joke between myself and one of the kind souls who assisted me in Pentos on my journey here. I wrote to him and mentioned my newfound hobby of gardening.” 

“So you know who this Aegon is?”

She wracked her brain for someone she had met in Pentos who had helped her and Viserys. She remembered a Northman, who was there and working for one of the Magisters that allowed them to stay at his manse. “Ser Jorah Mormont,” she lied. She might now have to write him a letter, to at least make it look like she still communicated with the knight. She knew he fancied her, but he was much older than her and she had been more concerned with Viserys’s health at the time. 

“Jorah Mormont? Of Bear Island? His father is Baron Jeor Mormont.”

 _Of course he is, all these bloody titles here._ She just flashed another smile. “He’s just someone who is helping me to entertain my newfound hobby.” 

“Hmm.” He did not seem convinced, but let it go. He changed subjects. “Your garden is coming along nicely it seems.” Davos frowned again, crossing his arms. “But you seem to be in the woods a bit longer than necessary. I do want you to be careful. Would never be able to look your brother in the face if something happened to you in those woods.”

Dany smiled again, keeping her voice even, with the slightest bit of imperiousness in her tone. “I am quite capable of handling myself Ser Davos, as much as I do appreciate your concern. Please, I just like to explore. Sometimes being in the house for too long just stifles me.” She paused, glancing at Ghost. Her hand touched his head. “As it would stifle anyone who was within its walls for too long. Decades even.”

If Davos knew about Jon, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it. He did not spend a lot of time within the house itself. She knew he lived in one of the cottages somewhere on the estate, but she hadn’t seen it. He visited the kitchens in the morning to collect Grey, who lived in a small room attached to the stables, to keep eye on the horses during the evening. Rhaegar cared more for his horses it seemed than his family, Dany had thought when she’d seen how the animals lived. 

He lowered his chin, imperceptibly. “Very well. Just looking out for you, while your brother is away.”

“I appreciate it,” she said again. She quickly sidestepped him, bowing her head lightly. “Have a good evening, I am late for supper.” 

With Davos watching her, she took careful steps to the house, to not appear rushed. Once she got into the kitchens, however, Dany took off up the back staircase, throwing her box of seeds and books onto the table beside her fireplace settee, and hurriedly began to undo her coat buttons. Her blood ran hot, mostly out of annoyance, because she felt truly humbled that Jon had somehow gotten an order for the gardening supplies. Especially after their recent arguments over whether he should get out of his room to actually see the garden. 

If it was an apology, she accepted it, although she would still continue to tease him about it. She glanced up when Missandei entered the room, with a fresh basin of warm water. “Did you see Davos lurking about?” she groused.

Missandei chuckled. “Yes, he is very curious about your travels in the woods.”

“Just tell him I’m used to wandering through the Essosi wilds. There were sinking pits of sand, poisonous insects, and wild animals that would make a wolf shudder in fear, in Valyria.” She pulled off her soiled petticoats, the bottoms stained with mud, wincing at the ragged lace. “These appear to be on their way out.”

“Oh Gilly can clean them right up, she’s a master with a needle.” Missandei glanced at the box with the seeds and the books, smiling wide. “Oh! You received them!” 

Dany glanced at her friend, who had abandoned her to dress herself, picking up the seed packets and inspecting them, still smiling. She frowned. “Yes, quite a surprise this morning. A Master Aegon Targaryen it appears had then purchased and sent to me.” She smirked. “And what do you know about it?”

Missandei smiled shyly, placing one of the packets back in the box. “Well, yes…he asked me for the order form, and I had Grey pick one up the last time he was at the store. He filled it out and well, he thought it was amusing.” 

She laughed. “And what do you think the storekeeper will say with Aegon Targaryen using Rhaegar Targaryen’s accounts?”

“I don’t think he thought that far ahead, I believe he thought he was being clever.” Missandei hurried towards her, reaching for her hand, suddenly worried. “Please do not be angry with me for keeping it from you. I thought it was quite… _sweet_.” Her cheeks darkened with blush. “And I really have never seen him quite so… _happy._ ”

Missandei had been working for Rhaegar since the accident, so she had known Jon just as long, Dany realized. She smiled quickly, nodding. It warmed her so to hear that. It was just so time consuming. It had been well over two months now since she came upon Jon in that room in the west wing; she knew that he had spent most of his life believing he would die soon, that he was nothing but a burden on his melancholy and grieving father, and he had no reason to leave his rooms. It would take longer than a few weeks to get him from the bed, as frustrating as that was for her to understand. 

She couldn’t rush it. Although, the fact that Missandei witnessed the change in him, someone who had known him for so long, it quickened her heart, and made her blood pulse faster in her veins. It seemed everything she was doing was working. It might be a little longer, but it would happen. She could get Jon from that room. Get him into the garden to witness the changes occurring there. 

Like the changes occurring in her heart. 

She swallowed hard, smiling briefly at Missandei. “Has Jon had supper yet?”

“He didn’t want supper, sent it away.” She hesitated. Dany arched her brows, silently questioning why that would be. It had also taken a bit of time for Missandei to understand that she was _allowed_ to talk to someone else about Jon, someone not in the closed off inner circle that Rhaegar had established to hold the secret of his son’s identity and condition. She fidgeted with the pocket in her dress. Her voice softened. “You haven’t seen him at his worst, Dany. Sometimes he falls into these states where nothing can get him to speak. It happens sometimes…sometimes he can’t come out. They last longer and longer…he doesn’t eat. All he does is sleep.” 

It brought a memory to the forefront, something she hadn’t thought of since the night it happened. Rhaegar, appearing in Jon’s room, saying how he heard him call; _probably pulled on the bell, one of them likely rang in Rhaegar’s room_. It was what Jon said. She screwed up her forehead, remembering hard, Jon’s pained voice speaking.

_“You will lose me anyway, the longer you keep me here. It gets worse. Soon I will not be able to come back.”_

_“Fuck! It’s happening again.”_

And Rhaegar’s voice, speaking to him, about how he didn’t want to lose his son, how he had already lost everything. His pained request: _“Don’t fight it.”_

There was more to just Jon’s warging, more to the weirwood tree and it’s powerful association with the Old Gods of the Forest, with the ability that Jon possessed to see through his wolf’s eyes and walk in his feet. _I have to talk to him._ She turned, still in her pantaloons and the loose corset that she refused to wear pulled as tight as it probably should be. “Missandei, help me get dressed. I need to see him.”

The other woman walked over, picking up the loose dress, a pretty plum color that brought out the violet of her eyes. She held it out, Dany stepping into it, and Missandei tugged it up over her shoulders, the sleeves fluttering around Dany’s elbows, lace embroidered on the cuffs. “You care for him a great deal, do you not Daenerys?” she whispered.

 _Care_. It was an interesting word. Had a lot of different meanings and implications. She thought of course she cared for him, for he was her kin. Kin she did not know anything about, when she had lost so much of her family already. What little family she had left, one shunned her completely and the other she loved desperately but Aemon was nearing the end of his life, he probably had chanced death several times he did not have any more left in his life to risk. So yes, she cared for Jon. 

And she cared for him in that she also sat by his bedside when he had that nasty fever, she encouraged him to leave his room to take supper elsewhere, and she was trying to get him to stretch his legs, to venture around on his crutches a bit more than he was used to, just going from his bed to his chair to the washroom and now to the drawing room. 

Yet she also cared for him in a different way. Jon smiled at her, laughed with her, and infuriated her. She wanted to hit him, hug him, and laugh with him all at the same time. He did something to her, when he glanced at her in the dim firelight, his gray eyes focused on hers, studying her intensely, in that scanning manner he had, where he noticed everything. Every breath, every minute detail of her expressions or her words. She supposed he was used to it, needing to tell what Rhaegar was thinking when his father only ever had one expression. 

Yet she felt warm, in the pit of her belly, when he touched her hand or when they fell asleep together in the bed after reading a book. When she woke up to his hand on her thigh or his breath tickling her hair. She shivered, even though she was quite warm in the stuffy room, in the wool dress. “I care for him,” she mumbled. 

Missandei smiled, whispering. “Good. He needs someone who cares.”

She pinked at the implication. She swallowed hard. “Yes.” After a moment, once the last button was done up, the last tie knotted, she excused herself from Missandei, and declined supper, even though her stomach growled. It would keep; she could sneak to the kitchens later. 

She had to see Jon.

  


“No…no…stop…don’t…”

Dany approached the door to Jon’s room, which was cracked slightly, a thin sliver of yellow light slicing across the floor. She lifted her skirt in her hand, lightly pushing the door open, frowning at the soft sounds of moaning and fretful muttering. “Jon?” she whispered, looking to the armchair where he usually was at this time of evening. 

Except he was in the bed, tossing slightly, his neck muscles cording and his hands clenching the sheets around him. Sweat beaded across his brow and dampened his chest. Ghost was lying beside him, silent, his head on his master’s knee, staring straight up at him, a paw resting on Jon’s thigh, almost pinning him down as he bowed slightly from the bed, clearly in the throes of a nightmare.

No stranger to nightmares, Dany rushed to the washbasin, wetting a cloth and moved to Jon, sitting beside him and patting his face. “Jon,” she whispered, repeating his name, over and over. “Focus on my voice. I’m here, I’m right here, just focus on me. It’s Dany, I’m here.” She shushed him as he whimpered, the sound from his parted lips eerily similar to Ghost. She squeezed his hand, which clutched tight on hers. 

After a moment, he exhaled, chest falling deep with the movement. His eyes flickered open. “Dany?” 

“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly down at his face. She chuckled. “Aegon Targaryen.”

He smiled, weak, but it was something. “You got the order,” he whispered.

“I did. Davos is very intrigued by my mystery suitor. I feel he believes it is his sworn duty to protect my virtue in Rhaegar’s absence. Little does he know, it is a wolf under this very roof who seems to have designs on it,” she teased. She ran the cloth over his face, his eyes closing, sighing in relief. He reached his hand to clutch her wrist, stilling her movements. She frowned. “Jon? Everything alright?”

He shook his head, sighing again. “Nightmare.”

“I gathered.” She got up, going to the chest of drawers and removing a clean nightshirt, as the other was damp from his perspiration and from the cloth. She moved towards him, gesturing. “Arms up.”

He rolled his eyes. “I can dress myself; you know.”

“Yes, but I want to do this, humor me.”

“I feel like I humor you more often than not.”

“True, but it is because I am right more often than not.”

“So does that make me wrong?”

“Yes,” she laughed. She tugged the clean shirt over his head, sending his curls flying up. He adjusted it, wincing as he shifted in the bed. She tossed the dirty shirt into the bin in the washroom and went over to the bed again, seeing him rubbing his knee under the sheets and blankets. “Do you want help?” 

He shook his head. “No, sometimes the muscles…spasm.”

As much as she wanted to use it as an opportunity to chastise him for not using his legs more, she knew he was in pain. He was coming off what was a rather bad nightmare and she didn’t want him to feel more embarrassed or ashamed. Or just mad. Mad Jon was the absolute worst. She sat beside him again, reaching to pull the covers down, exposing his knee. He tried to stop her, but she swatted his hand away. “Just…let me.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You shouldn’t. It isn’t right.”

“What? Helping you?”

“No…” He flushed, ducking his head, awkwardly embarrassed. She smiled. “You’re not…a nurse or Maester.”

“No, I’m not, but I want to help you.”

He pulled the covers back over his knees; she had only seen his legs exposed a few times, they were thin, the muscles atrophied from lack of use, but she knew they could be strong. It was like how his back wasn’t twisted; his spine relatively healed. Dany wondered just how injured he really had been during the fall. Or if perhaps things were magnified more than they really were for some reason. In Rhaegar’s twisted vision of the world. Or even in Jon’s. “No,” he mumbled.

It was such a shame, as Dany did not really care for the word ‘no.’ Too many people had used it on her in her life. Her father, Viserys, and even Rhaella to a point. Rhaegar was trying his hardest as well to keep her down. She arched her brows at Jon. “We have come to an impasse it seems.”

“So it seems.”

“In Valyria when someone suffers injury to the muscles, massage works well.”

He scowled. “What?”

“Rubbing the muscles at certain points to release the spasm. I’m not surprised Westeros has not adopted it as a medical practice, as they seem to be considerably behind the times. Valyria was always ahead of its time.” She walked over to the vials and bottles and tins of medical supplies on the chest by the door, fussing a bit with some of them until she found what she was looking for. She picked up a salve, which smelled like nothing and scooped some into her palm. With another vial, she sniffed and smiled, dropping some of the oil into the salve. 

“What are you doing?”

She walked over to him and sat on the edge of the bed again. They exchanged a look, he was wary, still hovering his hands over his knees to keep her from touching him, while she smiled, voice quiet. “Trust me Jon.”

After a moment, he hesitated and then nodded, barely. He pushed the covers over his knees and she reached for the one that had been causing him trouble, pulling it up slightly so it was bent and then she began to carefully rub the salve into the muscles around it. He hissed, eyes closing. “Fuck.”

“It hurts for a moment, but it will soon feel better.”

After a few more minutes, he smiled briefly, nose wrinkling. “What is that smell? Peppermint?”

“Hmm, it soothes.” She sighed, thinking of Rhaella. Sometimes when her mother had headaches, she would rub the herb into her temples, which helped them fade. She chuckled when he hissed again, head hitting back against the headboard. She smirked. “Seems to be working.”

“Hmm.” 

They sat quietly for a time; she wasn’t sure how long. Time didn’t seem to really exist when she was with Jon. His eyes were closed, and she hesitated, not wanting to disturb him when he was resting, but she wanted to know. She nibbled her lower lip. “Do you…will you…” She sighed. “Would you tell me what that nightmare was about?”

He kept his gaze on the ceiling. Ghost was still next to him, paw now on his stomach. Jon dropped his hand to the wolf’s paw, squeezing, holding him in place. He was quiet, for a good time. Dany stopped her ministrations, moving the covers back up over him, and leaned over to remove her boots. She crawled backwards onto the bed, to sit beside him, Ghost between them. She was about to say that it was alright if he didn’t want to talk about it, when he barely breathed an answer.

“My mother.”

 _A nightmare about his mother?_ Dany remained quiet. She stilled her movement, barely even breathing. In all their discussions, they never spoke of Lyanna. It was a rule, she’d gathered, that Jon did not talk about her. Not in the way Rhaegar never spoke about her, but in a manner that suggested it pained Jon differently. Rhaegar’s entire being was broken by what happened to his wife and son. Jon losing his mother seemed to touch upon a different kind of heartbreak. 

She traced her finger on the top of his hand. He turned his wrist, palm facing up and she placed her fingertips there, light enough to scrape against the grooves in his skin. “Will you tell me about her?” she asked.

He tilted his head towards hers, hand closing around her fingers, lightly squeezing. “I don’t remember much of her,” he whispered. He closed his eyes. “I know I should, I was eight when she died, but it’s kind of a bit of a blank.”

“My memories of my mother are like that too now.” Rhaella died a year ago now, maybe a little over a year. She wasn’t sure when it happened, if her mother died when the volcanoes began to erupt or if she survived, to die of starvation or burns or thirst. She was grateful to not know, but she also hoped it was fast and painless. “She was beautiful though,” she whispered, smiling to herself. Her memories began to appear, flashes in her mind’s eye. “She had hair that was lighter than mine, practically white. It resembled the sun, the rays of the sun that are so bright they blind you. She was the sun to me. My world revolved around her.”

He closed his eyes again, whispering. “What else?”

“She always smelled like jasmine and orange blossoms. My shawl still smells like her. It used to be hers, she gave it to me. When she saw me off.” She spoke more of her mother, how she was fierce and independent. How she fought against Aerys when his madness began to take over his mind. She fought Viserys too. The loss of her grandchildren and of Elia, Rhaegar’s first wife, hurt her deeply. She recovered though, because she had Dany to think about, as she was born right about that time. She told him that Rhaella loved music, particularly the harp, which was why Rhaegar played it. 

About how Rhaella taught her about herbs and their properties. “Perhaps she would become a healer, in this world. In Valyria though she was a Targaryen. We were nobility there, riches beyond compare.” Except that didn’t matter, just enough to get them on a ship out before it went to hell. She smiled, remembering something Rhaella told her when she was little, when she’d said that all she ever wanted was to be a dragonrider. “My mother said that if she could have picked any dragon, she would have picked Meleys, the Red Queen. Meleys was beautiful, shimmery scarlet scales, and she was named for the goddess of love. I always wanted to ride Balerion, Aegon the Conqueror’s mount. He was the meanest, the biggest, and the most vicious.”

She glanced at him, smiling again. “I guess I’m a little jealous you can see through Ghost’s eyes. The only connection I have are to beasts that are long dead.” Suddenly Jon turned his head to her, eyes wide. She drew back, unnerved. “Are you alright?”

“I have to tell you something,” he blurted out. 

She frowned; it seemed serious. “Okay.”

“I’ve…I’ve been keeping something from you.”

Her back stiffened. “Yes.”

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Jon said. He squeezed her hand tight, his fingernails digging into the palm of her hand. She covered their joined hands with her other, holding it there. He gulped. “I didn’t want you to get too close to me…just for me to die too. Like everyone else.”

 _And yet here we are, getting close._ “Too late,” she breathed. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She willed them not to fall. Except her cracking voice belied the emotion. “I can handle it Jon, and besides, you’re not going to die.”

“Not in the way you think.” He used his free hand to touch Ghost again, the wolf’s eyes closing slowly. Jon’s mimicked the action. He took a deep breath. “When I go into Ghost, sometimes I do not know if it will be the last time…the last time I can ever come out of him. One day I may never come out of him.”

 _What?_ Dany frowned, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Sometimes it lasts for a long time and nothing I do can get me to open my eyes in this body. Other times I’m pulled into him by something…uncontrollable. When I was little I just went into him when I was sleeping. I began to control it, to learn how to use it, but then it was like something started going off. I wasn’t sure why, but I got scared, when I couldn’t come out of him. Got scared when I was ripped out of my body and into his, sometimes when I was walking down the hall or playing in the yard.” He took a deep breath again, holding it slightly before exhaling hard. She could tell it was hurting him, drawing what little strength he had and she held his hand tighter in hers, to provide as much support as she could. “It was killing my mother and father because they couldn’t find an answer to it.”

“Jon.”

He continued, staring at something in the distance, perhaps a memory. “It’s like my body is dying and the only way I can survive is inside of Ghost.” He whipped his head to stare at her. She could see his eyes were wet, but he didn’t cry. “I climbed the tree because I got scared. It was out of control and I heard the weirwood could control it. I heard Rhaegar and my mother talking about it one night…I got scared. I got too far up in the branches and couldn’t get down…my mother heard me and she came to get me.”

 _Oh no…no, no, no, no._ Dany shook her head, not wanting to hear more, trying to reach for him, but he kept going, his voice speeding up as the memory overwhelmed him. “She came up to get me, but it happened…she was holding me in one arm and I couldn’t stop it…it just overtook me and I went into Ghost, and he was on the ground and I watched…I watched as she lost her balance when I went away and she fell…”

Dany cried out, not wanting to hear more, her heart bursting in her chest for him, feeling the pain that was pouring out of him. She let go of his hand, instead reaching for his shoulders, pulling him to her, his head going to her shoulder. “Jon, no,” she murmured. “No it wasn’t your fault.”

“But it was!” He laughed, almost sobbing. “I killed her.”

“No! No you did not! You did not kill her!” She gripped him tighter. “It was a horrific accident, it wasn’t your fault.”

Jon kept going. “I think that’s why he hides me away…why my father pretends I don’t exist. He doesn’t want me to learn about the world…to know what I”d be missing.”

She pulled his face to hers, whispering. “It’s a beautiful world Jon. You can see it that much from Ghost, but you need to see it for real. I want to show you. Please.”

“I see it,” he breathed. He shook his head again. “I see it through Ghost.”

 _That isn’t it though. There is so much more._ She held his head against hers, his body slackening, exhausted from the emotional waves he was still riding out. He shivered and she reached for her shawl, sitting beside her on the other side of the bed. Rhaella’s magical shawl, she thought, sweeping it over them both, huddling beneath it. His eyes closed and she squeezed him hard. “I’ll let you rest,” she whispered. 

He sighed. “Stay.”

She nodded; she had no intention of leaving. Not after this. She closed her eyes and burrowed against him as his arm came around to hold her to him, both of them drifting off to sleep.

  


They didn’t speak of that night again; Dany suspected Jon did not want reminding of it, and she honored that silent request. She went to him as usual, sat with him in the evenings, but most of the time during the day she spent in the garden. The peppermint made her think of other things she’d like to plant. Herbs and spices maybe, things that could help heal. The garden itself was healing, but in more ways than just soothing an aching heart. Jon happily sent off for herbs, which arrived a couple weeks after Missandei scurried off to the general store to submit the order.

Springtime was in full bloom, the sun out as much as it could be in the perpetually cloudy skies. Most often in the morning, after the fog burned away, and then a cleansing rain in the afternoon and early evening, before they cleared again to reveal the moon. She had received more soil, more seeds, and a few more tools to help push back the overgrowth and to nurse her burgeoning saplings and seedlings. 

Davos was still suspicious, cornering her in the kitchens one morning. “Your garden is nowhere near as large as it should be with all the supplies you are receiving,” he said. He frowned. “Just what exactly are you up to Lady Daenerys?”

Dany pursed her lips, darting her gaze to Missandei, who frowned as well. “Well…” She took a deep breath; soon enough they would end up seeing it. She folded her hands in front of her. “Well Davos I have been in the woods, planting my garden. Clearing space and planting bushes and trees and flowers and the herbs that just arrived…it’s just mine.” She put on a sympathetic look, almost a hurt expression, whispering. “After everything that happened this last year, I just wanted a space for myself…I’m so sorry for hiding it from you…from all of you, but I just wanted it to be mine.”

He winced, obviously feeling guilty for pressuring her. “I am sorry Lady Daenerys, I had no idea…”

“I will show you all, soon enough, but for now, please allow me to keep this to myself.” She smiled again, wavering her lips just enough. “It’s just mine for now, just my little piece of the world…especially here, where it is all Rhaegar’s.”

It worked, Davos apologizing and allowing her to leave, to sneak back to her garden. Missandei winked at her and she winked back; soon enough she would share it with her friend, with Sam and Gilly and Davos.

_With Jon._

It was over six months of Rhaegar being gone; six months since she met Jon on that dark night, sneaking through the house. It was long enough of working in the garden that Dany thought of it as _her secret garden_ , even though it was clear Lyanna’s spirit was everywhere she turned. In the wolf statue and the weirwood and roses that had begun to spiral out from the ground, their branches thick and leaves a deep forest green. There weren’t any blooms yet. 

She was taking a break when she found it. The marks on the tree. There was the face, the smile or the laugh or the crying tears, depending on how you viewed it, of course. Except she had taken a break, to snack on some food that Missandei had snuck her on her way out the door, nibbling on some fruit and sharing what she could with Ghost, who nosed into her pocket for more treats. She chuckled, as one of the biscuits that Gilly had made that morning slipped out of the pocket, rolling off to the side and under a root. “Ghost,” she laughed. 

Dany got on her hands and knees, crawling over to retrieve the biscuit, nosing around the side of the tree; it was the backside of it, an area she hadn’t really explored. She brushed a few stray strands of hair from her eyes, reaching around and paused. There were red veins throughout the roots, branches, and trunk, the sap and leaves all the same deep crimson. 

Except this wasn’t spidery veins of the tree, but deliberate scratching in the trunk. “Oh,” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand, staring at the marks. They were letters, surrounded by a crude drawing of a heart.

_R + L = J_

“Oh my,” she breathed, dragging her fingertip over the initials. Dany smiled, reading it aloud. “Rhaegar plus Lyanna equals Jon.” She turned to Ghost, whose eyes had darkened, and she knew it was Jon seeing it. She cocked her head, whispering. “You can see this for yourself you know. Soon enough.”

Ghost’s eyes went back to their bright color, and she knew Jon had disappeared. He led her from the tree, from the memory of a couple in love who were likely there with their child when they had carved it into the tree. He led her to the rose bushes, nosing around and then sitting promptly in the dirt. Dany touched the vines, careful of the thorns already emerging. Until she came upon what Ghost wanted her to see. 

A bloom.

It was sapphire blue, a tiny little thing, barely the size of a silver piece. “Oh!” she exclaimed, laughing. She cradled it in her hands, staring at the beautiful bloom. Dany turned her face around to the rest of the garden, to the tree and the vines and ivy and everything that she’d done so far. 

The garden was coming to life.

After so much heartbreak, tragedy, and death, for so long frozen in a stagnant and dark state, it was turning to the light. 

Dany laughed, gazing at Ghost, who yipped, dancing in the blooms, and she laughed, dancing with him.

  


Missandei saw the garden when Dany finally decided it was time. The roses were blooming quickly, clumps of sapphire petals. There were daffodils and tulips and the herbs were thriving, peppermint and lavender filling the senses when you entered the door. The door still needed painting, but she was focused more on what lay within the garden than what lay without.

“Oh it’s so beautiful!” Missandei gushed, spinning around with her in a hug when she took in the sight of it. Tears sprang in her friend’s eyes. “Oh it reminds me of Naath…the butterflies…” Butterflies danced on the blooms and even the occasional bumblebee. 

They found a swing in the stables, well, something that they could tie to the weirwood. Dany introduced Grey to the garden, using him to help, as he shimmied easily up the tree and tied the ropes as tight as he could, which spiraled down and knotted into the slab of wood that he’d sanded down and painted. 

“You do the honors,” Missandei said, holding the swing as Dany approached it.

She sank onto the wooden seat and kicked her feet out, laughing when Missy pushed her lightly between the shoulders, sending her into the air, the winds blowing through her hair. She laughed, feeling truly joyous. Ghost barked with them and Dany knew that it was time. 

That night, she went to Jon, who was asleep in his chair, a book over his knee. She brushed his hair from his face, kissing his temple lightly, whispering. “You’re coming outside with me whether you like it or not.”

And she dragged the wheelchair from the closet, planting it firmly in front of the door, so when he woke, he knew. 

Jon was leaving the manor.

And not in Ghost’s mind.

  


“No!”

“I don’t care what you say!” 

Dany grunted, dragging her arms under Jon’s shoulders, forcing him to sit up from where he had been laying slack against his chair. “I am done fighting you on this. You have been living a half-life for too long now.”

“I can see it fine through Ghost, please Dany, don’t.” He was terrified; she could understand his fear, the worry in his eyes about experiencing something like the true warmth of the sun or the fresh, dewy smell of the blooming roses. For most of his entire life Rhaegar had conditioned him into believing that he would die, that he should not experience anything beyond his limited world because then he wouldn’t worry about missing it when he _did_ die. 

He was scared, she understood it, but as much as she wanted to cave in, to let him get his way, she couldn’t. It would be better for him. To face his fears. To go back to where this half-life started, to see what he was missing. 

To face his demons.

Dany turned his face to hers, palm gentle on his cheek. Outside of the room, Grey and Sam were waiting, to help carry him down the stairs. “Jon,” she murmured, meeting his nervous eyes, even if he was trying to keep his face sullen. “Stop doing what is expected of you and start doing what you actually want. Do you really, truly, in your heart _want_ to never leave this manor? To never experience a life beyond its walls? I don’t think you do.”

“You don’t know me,” he mumbled.

“I do know you and I know you wear your pain like armor so no one can hurt you with it. I know, because I do it too.” She kissed his brow, her other hand going to take his, threading her fingers tightly in his. “Now please, I want you to see what you’ve already seen, but to also _experience_ it.” She cocked her head, smirking. “You’d be doing something Rhaegar doesn’t know about, if that helps.”

He rolled his eyes. He glared over at the chair, whispering. “I really hate that thing…it makes me feel weak.”

“And you’re not weak.” She looked over at the crutches, glancing at him again. He was silently fuming, hating the chair. He was able to get down the hall and back, maybe they just needed to move slowly. She let go of him, walking over and pushing the chair out of the room into the hallway. “Grey, if you could take this and stay behind us, Sam, just walk alongside, in case I need you.” 

Dany didn’t wait for them to reply, before she went back to Jon. She took his crutches and locked the cuffs around his wrists. He stood, leaning on them. He was wearing his usual outfit, black trousers and a black shirt, with black boots. She went to his cupboard, taking out a coat and he let go of one of the crutches to allow her to put it on one arm, and did the same with the opposite one. She snapped up the buttons and then took a cravat from the drawer. He smirked. “Are you dressing me up?”

“I want you to feel like a proper gentleman.”

“That’s funny, because I most certainly am not one.”

Tiny prickles appeared on her arms and made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It wasn’t how he meant it to be taken, she knew it, but the idea of him _not_ being a gentleman spoke to something dark inside of her. She swallowed hard, her suddenly sand-coated throat not working, keeping her mute as she finished tying his cravat. 

On a whim, she ran her fingers through his curls, loose from their normal bondage. He frowned briefly, before his lips twisted in a shy smile. He ducked his head and she glanced down; his knuckles white on the handles of his crutches. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled. 

“That’s the spirit.”

It took some time, but Dany said nothing, and was proud at how he navigated the stairs. He didn’t take any time to look around at the house; he saw it already when he was inside of Ghost. It was so strange, for her to see him outside of his usual cave. He took careful, deliberate steps, and she saw sweat beading along his brow, but he said nothing, straining against the fatigue she knew overtook him. 

Part of why she chose that day was because it wasn’t too sunny; she worried that he had been so removed from the sunlight he couldn’t handle it, skin too pale and his eyes not used to the blinding rays. Grey kept his distance, out of sight, silent and her faithful soldier in this war. She had sent Davos off on a request to get a new bridle for Tessarion, which would keep him away for the day, if not a couple days, providing the tack store in Winter Town didn’t keep the leather she had specifically requested. Gilly and Missandei were back at the house, no doubt curious and wishing to see, but she asked them to stay away, as she didn’t want Jon to think he was on display, a performing monkey in a circus.

Once they got to the edge of the Wolfswood, he stopped. “Do you need a moment?” she asked.

He blew out an exhausted breath, shaking his head and looking around, eyes wide, taking everything in. “It’s like how I remember it,” he whispered, awe shining from his wry smile. He turned his head gazing back to the manor. He sighed. “I forgot how gloomy it looked.”

“Well, I hope the rest is not so gloomy,” Dany said.

They took their time, with her walking slowly beside him. She had pulled her hair up atop her head, pinning it in place, and chosen a light pink gown for the occasion. She thought it to be something of a grand event, a show if you will, and she was nervous for him to finally experience everything she’d been pouring her heart and soul into. She turned the corner, stopping when they got to the wall. She had closed and locked the door, as she always did, and looked over to Sam, who was waiting quietly. She nodded to him and he nodded back, turning and heading towards the house. 

This was just between her and Jon.

_Here goes nothing._

She removed the key from her neck, slipping it into the lock. It clicked, loudly, and she held her breath as she pushed open the door, hinges creaking. She stepped inside with the door, and held it open, turning and smiling at Jon. “Come on in, Lord Jon,” she murmured.

Jon took one step and then another, and she realized he was also holding his breath. He reached the entryway and stopped, staring. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, and Dany realized she was doing the same, waiting for his reaction before she said anything or moved a muscle. He was exhausted, his arms leaning heavy on the crutches and Ghost moved to his side, leaning against him, providing support. She reached for his elbow and they went to the tree, while he stopped every few feet to just look at the beauty of the garden. 

They reached the weirwood and she took his hand from his crutch, lifting it gently by the wrist, and brought his fingertips to the white wood. He closed his eyes and Dany briefly remembered what he said about losing control, but he didn’t. He frowned, brow wrinkling, and his fingers dug into the soft bark. 

_He’s praying._

This was the altar for those who worshiped the Old Gods. Dany should have realized. She felt awkward, an outsider, and intruder in his private moment. She moved back a little, but he shook his head and opened his eyes again, glancing sideways to her. His eyes were shining. “It’s like how it was,” he whispered. He smiled, lips wavering a bit. “Like how my mother had it.”

“Tell me,” she almost begged. 

They sank onto the bench beside the tree, Ghost settling behind them. His crutches went by the wayside and he leaned against her, his arm going around her waist and hers reaching to lightly touch his chest. He gazed into the blue roses, voice cracking. “The last memory I have of her was here…she was on the ground, she looked like she was sleeping. I was Ghost, I could see her, and I didn’t know what to do. I don’t remember anything after that, I think even in Ghost’s mind I was broken. She was beautiful, even more than the paintings…this place was her soul, I think. She was connected to the gods here.” He closed his eyes tight, shaking his head, voice breaking again. “Rhaeger hates me. Because of what happened here.”

It was hard to tell with Rhaegar, but Dany didn’t think he hated anyone. She thought Rhaegar was selfish, too consumed in his own world to think of others, even his son. It made her hate him. She whimpered, hand going to Jon’s face, turning it towards her. “No,” she murmured. “No he doesn’t hate you.”

“He locks me away, I tell myself it’s because he loves me, because I’m all he has left of her, but he doesn’t.”

“He does love you; he can’t lose you, that’s why.” 

Jon touched her cheek, dragging one of her tears aside with his thumb. He traced it away, moving over the curve of her jaw to her lower lip. She shivered; not from cold. “He locks you up too,” he whispered. “Maybe for the same reasons.”

“And yet here we are.” They both glanced around the garden again; surrounded by the beauty, the small space overflowing with it. She laughed softly. “This garden is magic.” He was stronger; he wasn’t tired any longer and even Ghost was happier. 

They met each other’s eyes once more; something shifted in the wind. She no longer fought it, moving with it, and leaned into his face, tiny gasp catching in the back of her throat as their noses brushed. His breath quickened and he hesitated, very briefly. She almost pulled back, but then suddenly his lips were on hers, and his hand on her face, arm gripping her tight against his side. She moaned, pulling herself closer to him, almost clear into his lap, unable to stop herself. 

Their lips glided easily against each other, moving slowly. She giggled, unable to stop herself, as their tongues lightly touched, before they were pulling back, shyly studying each other, both their cheeks flushed not from the sunlight beginning to fall on them but the intensifying heat between them. She had only kissed one other boy before, when she was only fourteen, and she wasn’t sure she was very good. She assumed Jon had zero experience, being locked away in his room, and she hoped that it wasn’t bad for him. 

He seemed to think the same, ducking his head again. “Is this wrong?” he wondered. 

It wasn’t wrong. Not at all, she thought, leaning against him again. “No,” she murmured. “It’s love.” Of that she was quite sure. 

They kissed once more, deeper this time, unable to stop, and when they finally could tear themselves from each other, they both shyly smiled again, before giggling and laughing, enveloping themselves once more in each other.


	7. dragons and wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes progress, but also falters; Aemon finally sees his nephew after some time; Dany makes a discovery...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever, but I don't have an apology because I've been busy with work and lots of family stuff, plus there's bene a few other fics thrown in since the last update. Not sure when next update will be, as the next chapter is going to be pretty big-- and the rating will go up! (hee hee).
> 
> Anyways, enjoy if you're still along for the ride!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49616173787/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49641948936/in/dateposted-public/)

Weeks passed, and with every day Dany watched as Jon seemed to grow stronger. She no longer needed to cajole, plead, or downright beg him to leave the house, sometimes even finding him ready for her in the mornings or afternoons, knuckles no longer white on his crutches because he did not need to grip them quite so hard for balance. Every single day she found something new to admire about him or something she had never really even noticed before.

Like how sometimes she could see a faint bit of indigo in the gray of his eyes, when they darkened with mirth or passion. Or the unruliness of his curls, when he allowed them to be free, not tamped down in the half-up/down style he usually kept them in. Or even the way his pallor had changed, the occasional sickly pale of his skin now shining with pink from the sun, more of a pearly glow.

Eventually Dany didn’t need Sam or Grey to watch them walk from the house to the garden, because Jon was strong enough to do so without stopping as often as he needed, and she no longer feared he might fall or require the chair. She snuck some books from Aemon’s library on human anatomy, reading about muscles and latest advances in science and medicine on how the more you used them, the stronger they became. Over how there was a fringe type of study indicating the mind was stronger than the body, how you could perhaps even _convince_ yourself to heal if you tried hard enough.

Dany didn’t think that was fringe science at all. Since it seemed that she had willed Jon to heal just on her own. Not that she would say anything to him about it. _Yet_ , she thought with a smirk, tossing aside one of the books. She did like to prove him wrong when she could. Just as Jon did with her, of course. All healthy competition in fun. She found it made them happy. And they both deserved happiness, after all they’d experienced in their lives.

No one knew though, of what else they did when they would sneak to the garden. Or when she would wait for the house to quiet, everyone asleep, and then sneak up to Jon’s room and climb into his bed, lying against him and listening to his breathing. It was just for them; they didn’t think anyone would understand. Even Missandei, she thought. Not yet, at least.

She had never felt so _still_ with someone before. Yet so _alive._ Jon did something to her and she thought she did something to him as well. She found she could just stay with him for hours and not think of anything that had caused her grief or pain before. Time did not seem to exist in the garden. She wondered if that was why he wanted to go there more than ever, often ignoring the rain or cold, even if it meant his body would ache for days later.

Rhaegar had been gone for an eternity, it felt like, not that either of them minded. Dany wasn’t even sure how long he had really been gone. That day, a couple months after Jon first saw the garden, she was lying on a thick blanket she had spread out, her back pressed against Jon’s chest, while he leaned against the tree, his legs stretched in front of him. He wore braces on his knees that day, owing to the rain that had been plaguing the estate for over a week and the aches they caused. Her fingers were tangled in his, his arm draped over her shoulder. She didn’t ever want to leave, she thought, peering up at the canopy of red weirwood leaves, the crisscrossing white branches mesmerizing her as she tried to follow where one ended and another began.

“Do you know how long we have been here?” she wondered.

“Does it really matter?”

 _No, I suppose not._ No one would be looking for them. Davos was the only one in the house who seemed to have no idea about them, let alone about Jon. Dany wondered if Davos even knew of Jon’s existence. She also wondered to what extent Aemon was aware. Although Aemon knew everything, so she did kind of just assume that he knew Jon was leaving the house and knew that she spent the majority of her days with him. She shifted against him, turning and her skirts rustling, her fingers playing with his cravat. “We haven’t spoken in a while about your…” She nodded towards the tree, eyes rolling up at the smiling face of the weirwood, before dropping back down to meet his. “Warging.”

Jon moved slightly, glancing away. “It’s fine.”

“That does not sound like it is fine.”

On cue, Ghost moved from where he’d been lying against the trunk, on the other side. He padded over and settled on the blanket, red eyes fixed on Jon, his brow lifting as if to say “ _tell her the truth._ ”

He reached to rub at his knee, under the brace, which creaked with the slight movement. She shifted, making it easier for him, but her arms remained around him, her small hand pressed just below his shoulder. He sighed. “It does not feel like it did before,” he murmured. She waited another moment; sometimes he almost talked to himself when they were in the garden. Convincing himself before he could look at her and say the same thing. He blinked, glancing sideways. The knot of his cravat twitched, with the constriction of his throat.

Idly, she touched the knot, adjusting it and fussing with the starched white of his shirt. His coat was draped at her side, his black vest shining with an embroidered brocade that looked like wolves, or maybe they were dragons. She couldn’t tell, as the sun had begun to go down, what little of it showed around the perpetual clouds. Jon had filled out more, she noticed, her hand stroking over the soft cotton, feeling the muscles of his chest tighten with her light touch.

He dropped his lips to hers and she accepted his kiss, moaning softly into his mouth. They had not progressed beyond hours of kissing and exploring each other, their hands and fingers stroking and teasing places that caused the other to groan and gasp. As Dany thought perhaps, they should go inside, she felt his thumbs brush over the front of her dress, teasing at her breasts, and she broke the kiss with a soft sigh of pleasure, feeling her nipples tighten under the layers of fabric and the tight bodice beneath her dress. She slid into his lap, moving at her bustle of skirts, cursing that she’d chosen that particular dress to wear that morning instead of her thinner skirts and blouses, which were much easier to navigate in.

Except sometimes Dany felt like dressing in her pretty fashions, the few of them she had, perhaps like she would if she were in another place, back in Valyria, fancying boys and enjoying being a woman. Now though she dressed more for herself than for anything. _And sometimes for Jon_ , she thought, smiling against his mouth. His fingers moved to the line of pearl buttons down the back of her dress, skimming over them, alternating between the bumps of the buttons and the bumps of her spine, before they settled on her hips, tugging her closer.

She gasped once more, separating from him, as his mouth began to track down her jaw, over her neck, and he groaned, styimed by the high-neck collar of the dress. “Dany,” he mumbled, pulling his face away to peer at her, smiling wryly. “Why did you wear this dress?”

“I really cannot remember,” she mumbled, before she kissed him again, giggling.

They only separated when drops of rain began to fall, Ghost jumping up and trotting to the garden door, signaling it was time to leave. Dany was grateful, because part of her wanted to start to remove her confounded dress right there in the garden. She didn’t know what Jon’s feelings were on going beyond what they already did. The intense kissing and the occasional stroke or pet of a place on the other’s body that sent them reeling. She had stroked him through his trousers, unsure what she should be doing and he’d stopped her, saying that if she kept it up he would shame them both.

And then there was one night where she’d crawled up into his bed in her nightgown and his fingers had found their way under her nightdress, lightly touching the bare skin of her hip and slipping slightly through the front of her lace drawers, and the feeling had pulled something so primal and needy from her that she’d practically kicked him off of her, the intensity too much for her in the moment.

They had not spoken of what else they might do beyond those moments, but Dany had an idea. She just wondered when it would be, her stomach fluttering in anticipation. The garden had not only brought Jon his strength back, but it was lighting something inside of her as well. A fierce desire for something beyond the life she currently led. It was like the garden had opened something inside of her and she would not be satisfied until she got it.

She walked quietly beside him, watching him carefully navigate the now well-worn path from the garden to the house. “Do you think the rain will stay with us tomorrow?” she wondered.

“Probably.” He knew the weather patterns better than anyone. She suspected it had to do with his legs—they pained him when it would rain, but it might also have had something to do with Ghost. The wolf was practically omniscient. They were halfway to the house, nearing an old moss-coated sculpture of a dragon spiraling in flames, when Jon stopped quite suddenly, his eyes slamming shut. He mumbled, shaking his head quickly: “No, no, no…”

Dany’s eyes widened, reaching for him. “Are you okay? Is it your legs?”

He shook his head quickly, his shoulders shaking. She glanced to Ghost, who had frozen in the path, shoulders hunching and the hair on his neck and back standing on end. She was about to call for him to come over, to help, when Jon’s eyes rolled back and he fell to the side, his crutches sliding on the ground and collapsing beneath him as he fell. She screamed, terrified and blood-curdling, grabbing Jon as best she could, but his dead weight was too much for her and she fell to the ground with him, turning his face towards hers, his eyes white as he disappeared.

She sobbed, screaming for help. “Someone! Hurry!”

In the stables, Davos poked his head out and gasped, running towards them both. “Lady Daenerys! Are you injured?” he demanded, coming to stop next to them. His eyes widened even further. “Good gods! Is that…”

“It doesn’t matter who it is, please, we need to get him inside, he could be hurt!” He fell so hard, she was scared that he had hurt his back or his knees or something. She glanced at Ghost, the wolf running into the forest, straight for the garden. She whimpered, turning back to Jon, stroking at his face, leaning and murmuring over him. “Please be okay, please…”

It took some difficulty, but between Davos and Grey, they were able to get Jon up into his bedroom, before Grey hurried off with a message to collect Sam from the village, where he’d been for the last few days. Dany fussed about helping Gilly with getting Jon comfortable. “He just fell?” Gilly asked, shaking her head, sighing. “He hasna’ done that in some time.”

 _No, no he hadn’t._ Dany wasn’t sure what prompted the sudden pulls from Jon’s mind into his wolf’s, but she knew they had been infrequent. He even wondered aloud if they were fading somehow. It was painful, she remembered him saying. Not when he did it on his own, that was like going to sleep and waking somewhere else. The times where his mind tore away hurt him. She imagined it was like someone was ripping his soul from his body and forcibly placing it elsewhere.

She stood from her chair, letting Gilly gather used linens and clothing, and went into the corridor, surprised to see Davos still there. “I thought you had gone back to the stables,” she commented.

He glanced sideways, frowning. “I was not aware you knew of…Lord Jon,” he murmured.

 _So that’s what this was about._ She swallowed hard, remembering that she had kept it quiet from Davos because she wasn’t sure where his loyalties truly lay. With Rhaegar or with Dragonstone itself. She lifted her chin slightly, defiant. “Yes,” she said. “Yes I know him. I have been keeping him company since Rhaegar left.”

“You did not tell me this.”

“I did not know I had to, Mr. Davos,” she said, primly. She smoothed her hands down over her corset, finding the bindings rather tighter than usual, her chest straining with trying to keep her breaths even. She arched her brow. “And I would like to keep it this way, if possible. My brother, for whatever his reasons, chose to keep me from a member of my family. Jon and I are…” She pursed her lips, fighting for the word. _together?_ That wasn’t it. She wrinkled her nose. “Companions.”

Davos stepped towards her, his blue eyes twinkling, which surprised her. He chuckled. “You are misinterpreting my meaning, milady. You see…I believed Lord Jon to be…well, _crippled._ I had no idea he was able to leave the manor.” He tilted his head towards hers, quiet. “I last saw him when he was a wee lad, relegated to that chair. Just lost his mother, a quiet thing, lonely and frightened. He is a man now, I did nto expect to ever see that, to be honest.”

 _Rhaegar, you bloody fool._ Of course Davos would have known Jon as a child, if he had been around as long as he had. Gods knew what lies Rhaegar had fed to the groundskeeper to keep him from asking questions about Jon. She shook her head, disgusted with the lengths her brother went with his grief and melancholia. She knew they would have to confront him when he returned, she just hoped in the process she didn’t kill him. “Yes,” she whispered. She crossed her arms over her chest. “He is a man. He’s a man and he’s in pain and…”

“You speak of the warging.”

Her eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“I came from the South, many, many years ago,” Davos murmured. His eyes shifted, glassy with memory. A fond smile pulled on his lips, his moustache twitching. He lifted his fingers to lazily twist at it, chuckling. “Came with your brother. Met him on Dragonstone Island, at the castle there. Used to be a sailor.” He sighed. “Those were days long gone, I must say.”

She cocked her head, whispering. “And how did you come to the North?”

“Your brother met Lady Lyanna in King’s Landing. At a tourney. They came north and I went with him, when he no longer kept the castle on Dragonstone as his main residence. Been here since.” He smiled fondly, gazing at the closed door to Jon’s room. He whispered. “Remember when that lad was born. Your brother was happiest I had ever seen him. He delivered him, himself. Came so quickly Lady Lyanna didn’t know what happened until there was a babe in Lord Rhaegar’s arms.”

 _Does Jon know this?_ , she wondered, smiling softly. It was such a beautiful story. “My brother delivered his child?”

“Hmm, came out of the forest and had a babe and his wife in his arms.” Davos chuckled again. He was in disbelief. “I thought Jon was…well I thought he was already gone, to tell you the truth. Didna’ realize he’d been in here this whole time, your brother not saying a word.” He went sad again, blue eyes misting slightly. “He is…troubled, your brother. Troubled by the sadness in his life.” He sighed hard. “And what will become of his son, I fear.”

 _Nothing will become of him if I have my way._ Dany was sure there was an answer to it, they just had to find it. The world might have taken away her mother, her home, and her family, but it had also given her a new home and a new family. It had given her Jon. Dany would go down fighting if anyone took it from her again, she refused to believe she could lose everything in her life—twice.

She thanked Davos, saying she would speak to him after Jon awoke, to see if he might like to visit. She said nothing of the garden, although no doubt Davos knew now. If he knew of Jon, if he knew of Rhaegar and Lyanna from their very beginning, of course he knew of the garden. He would like be going to it now, she thought, turning away as Davos went down the stairs. She entered Jon’s room, Gilly finishing her tidying. “I will watch over him until Sam arrives,” she announced.

Gilly nodded quickly. “I will send up some supper for you both.”

“I am not hungry, but do send something light for Jon, for when he awakes please.” She sank into the armchair, leaning back in it, exhausted. Her hands fell in her lap and her eyes rested on Jon’s still form. She didn’t understand how to help him. They would find it though, they certainly would.

Hours passed, Sam arriving not long before midnight, drenched from the rain and sputtering about how the horse threw a shoe and they’d had to walk most of the way. He checked over Jon, sighing and made his assessment. “Maester Luwin from Winterfell will have to confirm, but it seems to be getting worse. He hasn’t been torn like that in a long time. Especially not while walking.”

“He was doing so well.” She was scared he’d change his mind, not want to go outside. Would stay in his chair, fearing the crutches.

“There is no injury to his back or his legs from what I can see.”

“Well that is something.” She stroked Jon’s hair from his face, smoothing her palm over his jaw, not looking at Sam any longer. She murmured. “Thank you Sam, you can go now. I’ll call if I need anything.”

He hesitated and then nodded. “Alright.”

Once Sam left, she pulled off her boots and lifted her skirts, crawling into the bed. She lay beside Jon, their heads sharing the same pillow, and her lips brushed across his. “Please wake up,” she murmured, her hand going over his heart, where one of his nasty scars pressed against her palm. She wished Ghost was there with them. Just so she could look into his eyes, beg to Jon there. She moved her hand to stroke at his face, her head falling into the crook of his neck. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, trickling down her cheeks.

_Please Jon, I do not want to do this alone._

She fell asleep, curled against him, and didn’t wake until sometime well after midnight, close to sunrise. It was a result of movement on the mattress. She blinked her eyes, adjusting to the darkeness of the room. The fire had gone out. She turned slightly; her mouth felt like there was cotton in it and her skin hurt from the boning of her corset and stays digging into her back and sides. “Jon?” she murmured, feeling the empty bed around her. She panicked, spinning around, trying to figure where he might have gone. “Jon!”

“Here.”

The door to the washroom opened and he stepped out. To her shock, he was only using one crutch. He limped to the bed, crawling into it, in his loose tunic and breeches, his feet bare. He appeared exhausted, dark circles shadowing under his eyes. She reached for him, mher mouth covering his, forgetting everything.

 _He’s with me, that is all that matters._ They kissed, long and slow, his lips gentle over hers. She thread her fingers through his curls, holding his face to hers when he pulled back first. “Don’t ever do that again,” she murmured, only half-joking.

He smiled, barely. “Now you know why…”

She didn’t want to hear it. “I know you are here with me now and I know that we will find an answer to this.” She wondered what had brought on the _attack_ as she figured she would call it. Ghost was at the empty hearth, eyeing them. She smiled at the wolf. “Did it feel any different this time?”

“No, just that I went without knowing.” He fell back against the pillows, eyes closing. He squeezed her hand tight. “Stay with me. It’s always bad the day after…headaches and pains.” He nodded to the crutch. “But I was able to use just one. That’s something, right?”

“Yes, absolutely.” She kissed their joined hands, lying against him. “I’ll stay here with you. For as long as it takes.”

As she fell back to sleep, she heard Jon’s whisper, knowing that he thought her already out. _“I just hope it isn’t too soon.”_

Me too Jon, she thought, gripping him tighter. _Me too._

The rain did not let up for _days._

“How are we not drowning in it by now?” Dany muttered, staring out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in Aemon’s library, her head pillowed on her forearms, draped over a settee. She shook her head, wondering how the North did not just float away into the Shivering Sea at the rate it was going. She sighed, turning and gazing over at Aemon, who was running his fingers over one of his books.

She wondered how Aemon knew which book was which, even if he couldn’t see the spines any longer. All he said was that his other senses were _heightened._ Sometimes Daenerys thought her Uncle Aemon might have been a wizard or some such thing. Like out of a book. She leaned into the corner of the settee, sighing dramatically. Aemon chuckled. “Oh dear, you complain now, but when that rain becomes snow, you will be hoping for rain.”

_Snow!?_

“And when will that happen?”

“Hard to say, the seasons are a bit strange here in Westeros.”

She scoffed. “Of course they are.”

Aemon smiled, turning the page of one of the books before him. He ran his thumb atop the page, lightly scraping it over a large tear there. His face lit up. “Oh! This is the story of Danny Flint. Allow me to tell it to you.”

Dany was about to agree, when she heard a noise in the hallway. It sounded a bit like metal clanking. She glanced at Aemon. “What is that?” she wondered.

“I do not know; best go see my dear.”

She got to her feet, walking over to the main door, wondering if maybe Gilly was having trouble with one of the tea trolleys. She threw open the door, turning to peer into the hallway, and gasped. “Jon!”

To her stunned happiness, Jon was standing in the corridor, a bag slung over his shoulder, which she could see was filled with books. He was leaning hard on his crutches. She understood why; the walk from his room to the garden was mostly flat save for the stairs. The walk from his room to Aemon’s library required a few more flights of stairs to get to, but she was pleased to see that the exertion did not seem to have done too much to him other than add some more color to his pale cheeks.

She rushed to him, taking the bag of books, her fingers trembling. “What are you doing? Why did you not call?”

“I wanted to see Aemon.”

A fire lit inside of her. It was like all the windows in the manor had thrown open, letting in the springtime sun and dew. A new day, she laughed, wishing it was the case instead of the rain drowning them out. She held open the door, shouting for Aemon. “Uncle! We have a visitor! You will not believe who it is!”

“Who is it dear? I can’t say I recognize that scent…perhaps a…” Aemon trailed off, his voice thinning, emotion filling. It cracked. “A…a wolf?” He lifted his fingers to his mouth, gasping. “Oh dear…is it…it isn’t!”

Jon seemed as emotional as Aemon. “Aye,” he called, quiet. “It’s me, Uncle Aemon.”

Aemon almost burst into tears, moving in his chair, trying to get up, but Dany halted him before he could injure himself. He demanded she move him to one of the long sofas, so he could sit side-by-side with Jon, who seemed as eager to get to their uncle as their uncle was to get to him. He reached up, taking Jon’s hands once she had him settled, propping his crutches against the wall. She turned, delighting at Aemon’s face, which was filled with elation. He ran his fingers over Jon’s face, memorizing the details of it, muttering to himself in Valyrian, so overcome he resorted to his native tongue.

She smiled, taking Aemon’s vacant seat, her hands folded tight in her lap. It was quite something for Jon to journey to the library, to see their uncle. She had feared his episode on the way from the garden the previous week would be a setback, but to her absolute delight it had spurred him to continue walking, moving about his room and to take his supper with her in the drawing room when she wasn’t with Aemon. She wanted desperately to get him to the garden, but not with the rain as it was. She worried the mud might be too much and whether the rain would destroy all the new flowers.

Jon glanced over at her, smiling softly. He eyed Aemon. “I am sorry I have not…seen you Uncle.”

“Oh my boy, between my illnesses and yours, we are a pair.” Aemon paused. He chuckled soft. “And your father, of course.” He reached his hand to the side, grasping for her, and she gladly offered her fingers for him to grip. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am for you two to have come together. Targaryens seek each other, we need each other, for a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

 _Maybe that is why Rhaegar is so upset, he worries he will be the last of the family._ Except she was there. They weren’t going to be alone. She was not the last and nor was he. She moved closer to Aemon, quiet. “What do you remember about Jon when he was small, Uncle Aemon? Tell me everything, he says nothing.” She was only partly serious, teasing them both.

There could be other times where these moments could take on sadness and thoughtfulness, but for Jon to come see Aemon after all this time, she wanted it to be a happy memory for them both. Jon rolled his eyes, glancing to Aemon, whose other hand was tight on Jon’s. “Do not listen to her Uncle, she’s always trying to stir up trouble.”

Aemon laughed, head falling back. “Oh! Daenerys causing trouble has done wonderful things for this place. For my old soul and for yours as well, my boy.” He blinked at tears, shining his milky white eyes to a pearly glow. He tightened his grip on them both, voice thick. “I am so glad for you both. This place needs young blood, young love in its halls again. Like when your father and mother first brought me here…it was so light…she was quite something, your mother.” He sighed, lost in his thoughts, speaking clearly, with strength Dany hadn’t realized he still possessed in his elderly age. “She was something…I had lost my sight by then, but you could hear her beauty. Her heart was beautiful and that was what mattered the most, although I know she stunned your father, not with her looks, but with that heart of hers.”

Dany wanted to ask what that meant, but Jon had beaten her to it, eyes wide on Aemon. “I barely remember her…tell me, Uncle Aemon.”

Aemon proceeded to tell of how Lyanna and Rhaegar met, at a tourney in the south. How she beat him in horseback riding, and she jousted with him, how she was the only woman who did not fall over him, wanting to become the Countess of Dragonstone, to make him smile for the first time after the terrible deaths of his wife and children some years before. “Lyanna did, she was the only one,” he whispered, smiling wide. “Oh she brought out the joy in him. She made him smile, she made him laugh, and the sounds were the most beautiful things I could hear, one does not need eyes when you can hear that.”

She didn’t realize she was crying, until a drop of her tears fell onto her hands. She hurriedly wiped at her eyes, feeling foolish. Jon smiled, sad. He smirked then, but Aemon couldn’t see it. No doubt could hear it. The irony with which he spoke, shoulders sagging in acceptance. “Rhaegar hates me, because she’s gone and he can’t laugh anymore.” He closed his eyes. “It’s my fault.”

 _No_ , she wanted to say, moving forward, but Aemon beat her to it. He snapped, firm. “I will not hear of that Jon Snow.” She smiled briefly, hearing Jon’s nickname coming from their uncle in reprimand. Jon was taken aback, thankfully. He frowned. “It is not your fault Jon, for what happened to your mother. You can say it all you want, but that does not make it true. I know Daenerys has likely told you it was not your fault, like the death of her mother is not her fault either.” He almost turned to her, to prove his point. She shifted, knowing what he meant. He shook his head again, patting Jon’s hand, whispering: “I am so sorry my boy, for my part in everything.”

Jon looked at her and she shrugged, unsure what that meant. He frowned, cocking his head, leaning closer to him. “Wha…what do you mean by that?”

“I thought it the best,” Aemon whispered, almost in tears. He sniffed, choking on his words, his hand lifting to touch at Jon’s face again, resting his fingers on his cheek. “I should have fought your father on it, on keeping you locked away. I believed it would work, at first…to control your condition, but…it has not helped. If anything I feel it may have made it worse.” He smiled. “Daenerys has gotten you out of the manor, out of the room and the bed, and you are here sitting next to me instead of dying alone up there.”

It started with the garden, she thought, getting up from her chair and kneeling before her uncle. She placed her hand on his knee, wondering. “What about the garden, Uncle Aemon? Lyanna’s garden in the forest?”

“Oh, she loved it there.”

“But…what of the weirwood…does it…” Daenerys wasn’t sure how to form the words. She frowned, but Aemon seemed to already know what she was going to say.

“Lyanna drew power from the garden.”

 _Power?_ She did not even chance a look at Jon, in case he might not want her pursuing it. “How long has the garden been there? It surely was not just for Lyanna.”

“Oh no, of course not.” He touched his fingers to her hair. “This house has not been here for very long. Rhaegar commissioned it when they married, before they moved North. The garden has been there for long before that. Generations. It was a secret place for Lyanna when she was a girl, even. She loved it so much. Rhaegar built this house here so she could continue to go there. It gave her strength and power.”

That was the second dtime he said that. Aemon may not have realized of what he was speaking, Dany thought, but she had a theory. She wondered what more it could mean, but Jon cut off her questioning. “I brought back some of the books that Sam brings me,” he said. He smiled. “I thought maybe you could recommend some more.” Jon let go of Aemon’s hand and rummaged in his books, frowning. “Ah, damn…Dany could you go up and get the red book I left by my chair? The one about the Dornish conquests?”

“Oh that is a great book, I believe I might have something similar for you if you are still interested in Daeron the Young Dragon, I know he was your favorite as a boy,” Aemon said, moving to get up.

Dany pressed him back to his seat, she couldn’t have him hurting himself. “You stay there Uncle Aemon. I will be right back. By your chair?” she confirmed, Jon nodded. She hurried out of the library, skirts swishing about her ankles as she walked briskly down the corridors and up to Jon’s room.

It was odd to see it empty, without him or his crutches. Dany wasn’t sure she’d been in here without him. It was relatively clean that afternoon, but there were still random books and parchment scattered about the desk near his chair. She spotted a red book on the chair, walking over and picked it up. She recognized it as a book she sometimes would catch him reading, but he would shove ita way before she could see what it was.

There wasn’t a title. Dany flicked it open and her eyes widened, scanning some of the paragraphs. She yelped, snapping the book shut. Her cheeks turned pink and she chewed her lower lip, eyes closing. _So that’s why he doesn’t want me to know what he was reading._ She glanced over her shoulder, hoping no one was wandering about cleaning, and flicked the book open again.

She found herself falling into the chair, absorbed as she read through some of the pages. “Where did he get this book?” she wondered, having read page twenty-seven several times. Her body was tingling all over and the pressure in her thighs would need to be dealt with soon. She swallowed hard, shivering and imagining Jon doing to her some of things that were outlined in the book. She jumped up, realizing that perhaps that’s why he was reading it.

So he would know what to do with her. _Oh my._ She shivered again, smiling to herself, her fingers skimming over her chest and down to land on her abdomen. Her eyes closed, wondering what Jon’s hands would feel like on her. She knew it was improper, to think of these things, but…well, she was a healthy young lady was she not? It was the twentieth century after all! A woman had needs; you know.

Dany set the book back where she found it. They were going to wonder where she’d gotten to and send someone after her. She did _not_ want to get caught. She thought of some of the moments where their kissing had gotten them carried away, of Jon’s hands on her breasts or her thigh or splayed across the small of her back. The feeling of his cock against her as they pressed together, too many layers of clothes still between them. They were not married. It might not be proper, but Dany knew that she wanted to marry him one day.

She wondered if Jon felt the same. Or if he still feared he would die young. Even if he did fear it, he shouldn’t fear her. They shouldn’t fear this thing between them. They should celebrate and embrace it.

_We will._

Dany made up her mind. She grabbed the book on the Dornish conquest, over on one of the side tables, checking it to make sure, and eyeing the red one that he’d left on the chair. She tried not to blush, thinking of the words lying between the innocuous red covers. She hurried down the stairs, still tingling all over from what she’d read.

In the library, Jon looked up, scowling. “What took you so long?”

“Ah…nothing. Couldn’t find it.”

“Weren’t snooping through his things?” Aemon teased.

The truth within those words almost brought her to her knees. “Um, no,” she laughed. She cleared her throat. “I…ran into Missy.” She would have to find Missy and strike up a conversation in case Jon wanted to know what they talked about. She went to sit beside Jon. Her hand fell to his thigh, lightly squeezing it. He glanced at her and frowned, but said nothing, leaning over to inspect the book that Aemon was showing him.

Her fingers traveled up his thigh, nearing the hard swell she could already see forming under his trousers. He leaned over to her, teeth grit. “Do you mind?”

Aemon was speaking about something related to Dorne, she could barely pay it attention. She leaned closer to him, whispering. “No, I don’t. When the rain lets up, we’re going to the garden. I have plans for you Jon Snow.”

He narrowed his eyes, smiling wryly. “Oh? What might those be?”

“You’ll see.”

Dany had plenty of plans. First, she wanted to test this _power_ of the garden. Second, she needed to get back to that book, if only to do her own bit of research. Couldn’t have Jon knowing more than her.

“You know Davos knows about you, he would want to see you after all this time.” Dany glanced over her shoulder, seeing Davos grooming Tessarion for her. She didn’t understand why Jon had wanted to sneak by him towards the garden, preferring to wait for Davos to have his back turned before they hurried out to the forest. She had told Jon that Davos was there to help bring him in after his _attack_ a week and a half before.

He shook his head, which seemed to sit better on his shoulders. She wondered if it was because his back was straighter, his entire posture less hunched over. Sam had refitted his crutches so that they went up around his elbows, giving him more support so he could walk a bit better with them. He was using them almost like canes, hardly leaning on them as he walked.

It was downright miraculous, Dany thought, how far he’d come since they began these visits. She reached carefully to link her elbow around his, taking his left crutch and holding it in her hand, so he had her and the other to help. He seemed unsure, capturing his lower lip between his teeth and furrowing his brow, but said nothing. He would be fine, she knew.

He waited until they got to the garden, settled on the blankets she had brought with her from the house, the warmth of the day seeping into their cold bones. The rain had brought with it a gleaming sun-filled day, warm and rather muggy, which she quite enjoyed. She had Missandei pack them some sweets and tea, setting them aside for later. Right now, Dany wanted to savor the sun and warmth. She closed her eyes, leaning back on her elbows, her ankles crossed, sighing happily.

This was what the garden was supposed to be for, a place of refuge, of enjoyment. She was pleased that her roses were doing well, great handfuls of the soft blue blooms erupting along the vines and beginning to creep along the wall. She glanced sideways at Jon, who had his legs stretched in front of him, his back to the weirwood tree. He was frowning. She nudged him. “You should not frown; your face might stick that way.”

He made a face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. She giggled, which had him smiling, albeit barely. He shook his head, whispering. “Sorry, I just…I don’t want to talk to Davos just yet. I still don’t want Rhaegar to somehow find out.”

 _Stupid Rhaegar._ “Do not be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid, it’s just…” He sighed. “I don’t want to disappoint him.” He reached to the side of the blanket, plucking at some of the grass sticking out from around the weirwood roots. Ghost ran by, chasing a butterfly that dared to land on his nose, snapping at it and prancing happily in place. “I’m a disappointment is all.”

She scowled. “You are not.”

“I am, I’m a disappointment to him, a shame…” Jon shrugged. She hated how nonchalant he was about it. He sighed hard, his stomach going concave at the action. She moved closer to him, leaning against his shoulder. His arm went around her, holding her there and his other hand went to lightly touch hers, settled on his abdomen. He stared at one of the shrubs near the open door, focusing intently on it.

She closed her eyes, savoring the way his chest rose and fell beneath her. The sun, the fresh air…she smiled, squeezing his hand lightly. “I feel like even the hearttree is happier,” she murmured. “It was so dark in here. It was like nighttime even during the day, but now it feels like the sun is always shining in here, even when it is dark out there. And look at the roses!”

Jon gazed over at them, his lips quirking up. “My mother loved the blue winter roses the most,” he whispered. He smiled wider. “I remember…I don’t even know if it is real, but I remember bringing her some one morning. She was in bed still and I woke up first. I took a whole bunch…there used to be some bushes near the kitchens…and I brought them to her. Father was there too, they were laughing and…and I had yanked htem all out by the root, there was dirt on the floor and in the bed and she just laughed and took them and said they were lovely.”

 _He doesn’t realized he called Rhaegar, Father._ Dany smiled, glad he had such a memory to fall back to. “That’s lovely,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, sighing. “My mother liked flowers, but she loved fire the most…she liked to sit before it and she thought it could tell us things. Maybe your mother thought the same of the flowers.”

“Maybe.” He smiled again. “It’s magical here.”

“It’s powerful.” She hadn’t forgotten what Aemon had said about the garden and its power. She ran her hand down over his thigh to rest on his knee. He shivered beneath her and she smiled at the effect she had on him. He had the asme on her. “You aren’t in pain, you know. Even with the moment before…right?”

He nodded. “No pain…it’s strange.” He frowned hard. “Even the warging…other than that one moment, I feel like I have more control inside Ghost. Like the edges are clearer between us. We are still…the same, but…it’s hard to explain.”

“I think I get it.” She watched Ghost run around, chasing after bugs. “He’s your other half, but before it was blurry, where his mind began and yours ended. Now you know.”

“Exactly.”

“I think the tree has something to do with it.”

“Like what Aemon said about there being power?”

She nodded. She rested her hand on a root beside them. “Think about it. This tree has been here since the beginning of the North. The Children of the Forest carved the face…you even said yourself that you heard the tree had something to do with it.”

“It was just…”

“No,” Dany interrupted. She knew he was going to protest, to say that he went out of control whiel he was int eh tree. That his mother died in the process. She wouldn’t hear of any protests to the idea that it was connected to the weirwood. Jon’s roots were quite literally here, in this garden. He had to be connected to it, Dany was positive. She looked around the garden. “I think this place has something to do with it…it needs to be open. It needs to…to feel love.”

He frowned. “It did before.”

“Maybe, but who knows. Maybe it needs to be open always.” Dany gazed back up at him, smiling, trying to think of a little Jon running through the garden. She twisted at his cravat, her fingers lightly brushing the pulse in his neck, feeling it quicken. “What did you want to do when you were small? Before…before all this?”

He made a face again, somewhat embarrassed. “You’ll make fun.”

“I will not.”

He laughed, as if to say _yeah, we’ll see._ He leaned down, brushing his nose to hers. “I wanted to be outside…all the time. A ranger beyond the Wall in the North or a soldier…when I fell…I was just upset I wouldn’t be able to try to climb the Wall.”

“The great ice wall in the North?”

“Aye.”

“I think that fall might have saved you, that sounds more dangerous.”

Jon poked at her side, before he skimmed his hand up the line of pearl buttons along her vertebrae. She shivered. “And you? What did you want to be in Valyria?”

“I wanted to be a wife, a mother, and a proper lady to a Valyrian nobleman.”

The straight face with which she said it might have been accepted as fact by anyone else. Jon stared at her for a moment, before he burst into laughter at the same time as her. “You did not! That’s not funny!”

She giggled. “I thought it was.”

“Seriously, what did you want to do? What were the possibilities for a Valyrian?” he wondered.

There weren’t many, that was true, but far more than what was available for women in Westeros, she thought. She sighed, drawing a circle around his knee, which he’d drawn up slightly, sos he could sit back against his chest, their hands linked. “Well…I wanted to be an explorer. A conqueror, I guess. I wanted to see all the lands of Essos and meet new people. I can speak four languages.”

“Really?”

“Hmm, Common Tongue.”

“Obviously.”

“Valryian, Dothraki, Ghiscari, and I suppose a bunch of different versions of Valyrian.” She twisted in his arms to come nose to nose with him again, tapping her finger on the bow of his lips, whispering. “High Valyrian, Bastard Valyrian, and I’m pretty good with the Pentoshi version.”

He kissed her finger, voice dropping, rather husky. “Smart Daenerys, you could be queen.”

She leaned in closer, murmuring. “I wanted a family. That is not a lie. I want children.” _Want, present tense._ If it was possible, Dany wanted hundreds of children.

Their breath hitched, the closer they were to each other, and she slid her hand along his jaw, capturing his mouth with hers. They kissed gently, for some time, before she pulled back and rested her head to listen to his beating heart, while he held her close. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling. “You would be an amazing mother,” he breathed.

Her eyes fell shut, trying not to think about that. At her age in Westeros, she was downright a spinster. Rhaegar had made no mention of a match, nor would she accept any he might try to put her into. She supposed it hadn’t crossed his mind that he should try to find her a husband or at least introduce her to eligible men so she might find one herself. Try as she might, Dany couldn’t find it in her to care really, because the only man she wanted was currently holding her close, his kisses sending her toes curling in her boots and her skin burning with flame.

She blinked back some tears, gazing into his gray eyes, holding his face again. “I wanted a family and I got here and didn’t think I had one anymore, but…”

“Now?”

She smiled, leaning into him, chuckling. “Now I do. You’re my family.”

“I’m glad,” Jon managed to get out before she kissed him, molding against him. They fell back from the trunk of the tree to the blankets, their hands exploring each other, and kisses breaking only to breathe. Time stood still in the garden, Dany thought, and she was content to stay here forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jon and Dany get ahem...closer (aka, Dany finds out what Jon's been paying attention to in that book of his and she's been doing the same...)


	8. fire in the garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany take the next step in their relationship; a dragon returns to the manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update to the rating! This chapter is like 75% smut. Have fun.
> 
> Sorry about the ending, but it had to happen. No idea when next chapter will be, I got a new position at work and even with teleworking and social distancing will need to go into the office soon so I will have less time to write.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49616173787/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49641948936/in/dateposted-public/)

Dany had come to the obvious conclusion for Jon’s warging issues and the way they were changing, the way he felt when he went in and out of Ghost’s mind. Aside from that scary moment almost a month ago, he had not had any involuntary pulls into his wolf’s skin. It was the garden, she decided. It was Jon’s acceptance of his warging.

She set down a book she had discovered in a dark corner of Aemon’s library, caked in the ages of dust and untouched, the pages so brittle she flinched each time she turned them, terrified they would turn straight to ash in her hands. She had to translate it, using several different dictionaries for Valyrian, Common Tongue, and probably the only known book that outlined several words in the Old Tongue—what the First Men spoke, a dead language that no one understood. She supposed she might have been the only one to translate it in hundreds of years, using some of the few known translations to come up with her own versions of things.

The candles sputtered around her and her eyes ached from staring at the tiny print. She rubbed at them with her fists, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall, stunned at how late it happened to be. “Gods has no one come to find me?” she wondered, pushing her papers aside. She gathered her mother’s shawl, wrapping it around her, and blew out the remains of the candles around her. After she barricaded the fire in the hearth, so that it might also die out, she made her way through the darkness of the manor to her room.

She pushed open her bedroom door, stopping hard in her tracks. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

_Jon._

He was sitting in one of the armchairs by her fire, swirling around a glass of what she thought might have been whiskey. “What are you doing here?” she asked, marveling at the sight of him in her rooms. It was one thing for her to visit him; she could go into his room because everyone knew she cared for him, helping him get up and walk around, and tending to him. It was another for him to be in _her_ room. Almost improper. She fidgeted, glancing over her shoulder to her closed door. She feared Missandei or Gilly might suddenly just pop out of nowhere. They were good at that sort of thing.

Jon smiled, setting down the glass at the table beside the chair. “Thought I’d visit you for once.”

“Bold, my good sir.”

“Hmm, what can I say, taking a page from your book.”

She flushed, thinking of the red book in his rooms that she stole glances at when he was in the washroom or when she made an excuse to go up there to collect a coat or one of his sets of crutches. In a way she had been taking pages of it, memorizing certain things she encountered within the covers. It seemed Jon had as well—she tingled at the notion that he had turned down the corners of a few of the pages, each one related to— _ahem_ — certain _ways_ one might encourage a lady’s pleasure.

Ooh is that why he’s here, she wondered, placing some of her notes down on her desk, shoving them with her untouched correspondence boxes—she had no one to write to anyway. Just a couple letters to Rhaegar here and there, not that that mattered. It had been ages since she’d seen her brother or even heard from him. She swallowed hard, very put off by Jon in her rooms. He looked out of place in his black robe and nightshirt, his black breeches loose about his legs and his feet in black slippers instead of his boots. His hair was pulled from his face as usual.

The room was too feminine, he stood out sharply. She tugged her shawl tighter around her. “I was thinking,” she said, leaning against her desk. “Perhaps we ought to invite everyone to the garden? For a picnic. The weather is cooperating and the flowers have all bloomed…I think it would be lovely.”

“Whatever you think.”

“Well, it is your garden too.”

He cocked his head, smiling briefly. “It might be where I was born and where most of my life was shaped, but that garden is all your’s Dany.”

She pinked at the praise. “I do think it is important to you.” She picked up some of her notes and walked over, sitting on the arm of the chair, showing him. “I found one of these old books, I don’t think Aemon even knows it existed. It might have come from Winterfell…I had to do a lot of research, but it speaks of warging, of the connection to the weirwood trees. I think you have more control over it because the tree is thriving and it might have just been…well, almost I think a last concerted attempt of the connection between you and Ghost to bring you into him that one time. You have control over it now, you’re fighting it as you come into your own once more.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” she said. She drew herself up, scowling at him. “You have changed Jon. You are not the same person I saw in your bed months ago, you’re stronger both here…” She patted his knee and then stroked at his hair, leaning closer. “And here…” Somehow, she found her mouth hovering over his, her thoughts stuttering as he husked lightly over her lips, drawing forth a stammer. “And…and here…” She meant to press her palm to his heart, but Jon had taken her hand before she could move it towards him, tangling their fingers together and stroking lightly, before they kissed.

They both fell together, colliding against each other as he moved from the chair, to her surprise, and she pulled at his hands, stroking them up the sides of her dress, stumbling towards her bed. It barely registered that he didn’t have his crutches, but he was leaning against her for support, his feet following hers towards the edge of the great four-poster. She wasn’t sure what was happening, when he spun her around, her back dragged towards his front, and her eyes widened, as his fingers began to fumble with the buttons along her neck.

He grunted slightly against her ear, muttering: “How do you get these off?”

“Oh just rip it,” she sobbed, needing his hands on her. Every hair on her body was standing on end, her skin pebbling with anticipation of more. The few tentative pets and strokes they’d given each other over the last few weeks were nothing compared to what was happening to her now, his fingers diving forth to touch newly revealed skin and his lips tracking down her spine. She cried out, falling forward onto the bed, turning quickly so that he could rest next to her, not wanting him on his feet.

Especially since if he was feeling anywhere near like how she felt, his legs would not be able to keep him standing for too long. She dove her fingers through the folds of his robe, pushing it off his shoulders to fall into a pile on the floor and then began to rip up his shirt. “Dany,” he muttered against her lips, but she shook her head, silencing him. He nodded, understanding.

They struggled with their clothing, mostly hers. She cursed her stays and the buttons of her dress, eventually hurtling herself off the bed to kick it off and then pull at her boots. She stood in her lace petticoats and corset, mumbling in Valyrian as she tried to reach back to get rid of it, but Jon chuckled, motioning for her to turn. She backed up to the edge of the bed, between his splayed legs and he undid the corset, removing it quickly. “Oh,” she sighed, closing her eyes, his fingers tracking now across her belly, to dive into the waist of her lace drawers. She gasped, feeling the heat of them slip between her legs.

Unconsciously, she moved her feet apart, giving him more room. He sat up behind her, his mouth hot on her spine, and his tongue laving at the bumps of her vertebrae, as he wrapped one hand around her hip to stroke between her dampening folds, and the other moving up to cup at her breast through the thin linen of her chemise. She grabbed at each one of his hands, pressing them harder to her body, needing to feel more.

Peculiar sensations she had never felt tracked through her. She could hardly breathe, struggling to let in air between pants and moans, her eyes shut at the onslaught of his fingers. He rolled her nipples between his index finger and thumb, while he slipped his others along the wetness gathering between her legs, back and forth, gathering it up and moving it from inside of her towards the little nub at the apex of her cunt, his thumb roughly circling it.

“OH gods, like that,” she begged, his mouth pressed hard against her back as she trembled on her feet. She couldn’t believe this. It was intense, the heat building like lava in her belly, flaring up through her. She rocked her hips to his hand, sobbing in Valyrian, her hand over his, guiding him against her, needing more of him. She pressed his finger into her, startling him and feeling him tense, but she shook her head hard, begging. “Yes, yes right there…inside of me.”

Her body wanted more to fill it, but right now she just had to…she wasn’t sure what, but she had to get rid of the building pressure. It was killing her, smothering her, and she squeezed harder at her breast, while his hand played with the other. She needed to feel him and with all the energy she could muster, she tore off the chemise, spinning in his arms, to finally look him in the eye.

The gray was gone, disappeared in the blackness of his pupils. His breath was raspy just like hers, and he growled, snapping like a wolf as he took her mouth with his. _Oh yes,_ she thought, stroking his tongue with hers and allowing him to plunder her mouth, at the same time his fingers reached back inside of her again. Another cry tore from her, as he moved deeper, before he encountered her maidenhead. He hesitated and she closed her eyes tight, the feeling building inside of her again. “Yes,” she repeated, over and over, as he tapped along inside of her, first one finger and then two, and then soon there were three, stretching her from the inside, her need coating his hand and dripping from her. She fell over onto her back and he moved to lie beside her, his mouth suckling at her breast.

The moment he touched his lips to her nipple, she arched almost off the mattress, crying at the sensation of his hot breath on her skin. Her eyes opened, just enough, to peer at him through her lashes, watching him nip and lick at her breasts while his hand did magical things between her legs. His free hand stilled her hips as she rolled them towards him, fucking his fingers, and her thighs quivering out of control.

He kissed back up to her mouth, as his thumb pressed against that little nub. “You want more?” he whispered. He bit at his lip, nervous. “Because…I can give you more.”

 _More!?_ Dany had no idea what more he could give her, but she nodded, anxious and her hair tangled beneath her head on the mattress. They were diagonal across her bed, pressed into the soft duvet. “Yes,” she whispered. She watched as he removed his hand from her cunt and her legs fell together, watching as he moved carefully, to peel off her lace drawers. They fell to the side of the bed and she realized rather acutely that she was completely naked.

No man had seen her naked before. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, lying there on the bed, her arms above her head, and her legs splayed out, feet pressed to the edge of the bed as he knelt between them. He stared at her, unblinking. She felt nervous and moved to cover her breasts with her arm, but he knocked it aside. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathed. He shook his head, fingers raking from her lips down over her collarbone, between her breasts, and along her belly. He traced a circle around her navel and then to the top of the thatch of silver curls that sat at the top of her cunt, before he pressed them back into her again. He smiled when she arched again, hands falling to pull at the duvet. “So beautiful.”

Dany wanted to touch him, but she could hardly lift her arms. She tried, but he stilled her. He might not have had his shirt, but he was still in his breeches. She could feel the evidence of his desire for her against her leg, as he began to kiss along her belly from her breasts. The most she could do was rest her hands atop his hair, tugging the curls free. They were so soft and she gripped at them, swiveling her hips against his fingers again. “That feels nice,” she whispered, sighing at the feelings consuming her once more.

And then his mouth touched over her nub and she gasped, stunned. “Oh! Oh my!” She had seen it in the book, unsure what she thought of the idea of a man’s mouth… _there_. It didn’t seem very appealing, not like his fingers, but she couldn’t breathe. It was overwhelming, the fire building back inside of her again, much faster than it had before. It pushed her and pulled her, and she no longer could breathe. Just little gasps as she sat up, pushing his face closer into her cunt, his tongue darting out to slick between her folds.

He dragged his tongue along her, licking and tasting, and his fingers were doing things as well. She cried, sobbing, her entire body shaking and she pushed him harder into her, wanting more, greedy and desperate. His tongue slipped inside of her and she thought that was it, as her entire body shook, waves and waves of fire washing over her, like the volcano that had been slowly trembling inside of her just let loose, and she fell backwards onto the mattress, her legs entwined around him, her heel pressing into his bare shoulder as he kept up whatever he was doing with his mouth, encouraging more from her. He stroked his hands on her calves and her thighs, soothing, but still he kept between her.

She was about to tell him to stop, she couldn’t take anymore, when he sucked at her nub, drawing it between his teeth and scraping, and that was it. She shattered again, so soon after the first, and she was certain she might have blacked out. Maybe even tore his hair from his head. _What just happened to me!?_

It was possible she fell asleep. She couldn’t be certain, just that when she opened her eyes, Jon was lying beside her, tracing his finger along her collarbone, his eyes locked on her. She felt her cheeks darken and warm, still tingling from what had just happened to her. “My gods,” she whispered, arching a brow, smiling. “You were paying attention to that book of yours.”

It was now his turn for his cheeks to turn pink above his beard. “You know about that book?” he mumbled. He looked terribly embarrassed. “I didn’t know you found it.”

“Hmm. It seems you have been studying.”

He chuckled. “I wanted to make you feel good.”

“And you certainly succeeded Jon Snow.” She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand, this time she reached to trace along his bare shoulder. He still wore his breeches. Now it was his turn. She felt nervous. He had made her feel almost _too_ good and she hoped she could do the same for him. She glanced at the clock on her beside, ticking away quietly, the pretty marble device blending in with the décor she’d painstakingly added around the formerly dark gray and bland room. For one, she had switched the paint on the walls for something softer, a lighter gray. The curtains and the furniture were blends of the same tones, with light colored throw pillows, coverlets, and the heavy curtains around her bed had been switched for lighter ones.

It was late, so no one would be looking for either of them, although she had no idea how loud she had been, perhaps she might have woken someone? She flushed at the thought. Jon smiled, leaning in to kiss her. His beard was damp, and she shivered again at the notion that it was from her. He tasted different too. He dragged his fingers along her cheek and then replaced his mouth with them, so she could taste herself. “Oh,” she moaned around them, swirling her tongue across the digits, arching against him, her pelvis cradling the hard bulge protruding against his thin breeches. _It’s me, that’s what I taste._ It should have probably disgusted her, but it only intrigued her, and she wanted more.

He removed his fingers, kissing her again, deep and long. It wasn’t enough though, even as she drew soft moans from him, from stroking along his bare chest, teasing at the soft hairs beneath his navel, and squeezing at his biceps. She tore her mouth from him, taking gulping breaths, not just to give her energy but to gather her nerves. “Lie back,” she coaxed, pressing him into the mattress so she could slide leg over his narrow hips, carefully sitting astride him, like one might a horse. It was all instinct, her mind fogged with the warm feelings that filled her from her core out to her limbs.

It was an odd feeling, with him beneath her like this; she had full control over him. He realized it too, looking up at her, a little nervous, eyes flicking from where her fingers had begun to pull at the buttons of his breeches. “What are you doing?” he whispered, his hands fidgeting for a moment, before falling to the tops of her bare thighs.

“Shh,” she advised. She ran her hand down between his pectoral muscles, delighting in the quiver of his tight abdomen. A teasing smile pulled on her lips, her eyebrows rising. “Just let me do this for you.”

“Dany, I don’t know if…”

Whatever he wanted to say, it caught in his throat in a gasp, his pupils blowing wide again, as her fingers closed around him. She jumped herself, startled. She had tried to touch him before, rubbing at him during some of their rather _heated_ kissing sessions before, but she hadn’t known what to do. She still didn’t know what to do. She thought of the book, of some of the pages she’d encountered and none of them really showed her what the female did to the man exactly. Other than well, the actual event itself, which she wasn’t sure if she was ready for.

As he had looked at her, appraising her naked body, she did the same for him, staring at how he was so… _perfect._ She was curious, naturally, and studied his cock. She had never seen one before and his was quite nice, she thought. Or so she imagined it would be. She reached for it, and did what came naturally, stroking along the hot, velvety length of him. Her thumb scratched down the thick vein she could feel along the underside and swirled at the tip, moisture pulling back as she moved towards the base again. “Fuck,” Jon cursed, his neck bobbing and constricting, head tilting back. His eyes slammed shut as she did the same movement, slower this time, which drew a whine from his tight throat.

She drew back, startled. “Did I…” She swallowed hard. “Do something wrong?”

He shook his head hard, anxious, on the mattress, gulping breaths. “No, no you didn’t…just.” His hand reached to cover hers, gentle, guiding. “Not too hard…too much.”

It was similar to how he had treated her, starting carefully and then moving where she directed, encouraged by her cries and moans. She did the same for him, one hand fondling at his stones while she moved the other around, up and down, twisting and gripping at certain points when she heard him stutter or arch his hips towards her. She glanced down, at the flushed heat of his cock and licked at her lips, wondering what he tasted like. He’d tasted her, after all.

The move came to her suddenly. She bent down, with no other thought, and lightly darted her tongue out to touch the tip of him. “Dany!” he exclaimed, flying up at the waist, his hands reaching for her. “What…what’re you doing…?” he stammered. He looked horrified, albeit a bit curious, frowning. “You shouldn’t…”

“I want to,” she said, smiling. She kind of hoped it was an enticing smile. Except it was shy, like he’d been when he’d kissed her in her most sensitive places. She pushed him back down. “Let me do this…I want to do it.” She really had no idea what she was doing, so she just did what he’d done to her, starting first with a kiss, before dabbing up the leaking fluid from the flushed, swollen head, but closed her lips around it, before sliding them down the length.

He was so hard, so long, and thick, she struggled a bit when she fitted her whole mouth around him; it made her eyes water and she backed off slightly, using her other hand where her lips couldn’t reach. Something pulled at her braids and she realized with a quick eye-roll up that it was his fingers, tugging on her hair. She kept her eyes on him as she licked and sucked on his cock, smiling around him when he gazed at her in awe. His fingers lightly traced over her cheek, holding her hair back, still firm, but with the gentleness she had come to attribute to him.

After a few moments, she felt him stiffen, and his member twitched in her mouth. She closed her eyes, moaning as he bucked his hips into her face and she pushed her hands on his thighs to hold him down, lifting slightly, but still bent, as he groaned above her, erupting into her mouth. It surprised her and she wasn’t sure what to do, so she did what came instinctively and swallowed, his soft groans and grunts encouraged her as well, and she pulled off when he stilled, his chest rising and falling rapidly from his climax.

They remained still, with her knelt between him and his hands still in her hair. She licked her lips, lifting her eyes back towards him. They both giggled, somewhat embarrassed, and she crawled up over him, pushing her nose to his. “You didn’t need to do that,” he whispered, his cheeks flaming red. “And I probably should have lasted…”

She silenced him, any protests or apologies or embarrassed mutterings. They were still figuring this out. It was the first time either of them had done anything of the sort. She curved against his body, lightly touching at his arm again, shaking her head. “If you don’t mind, can we…” She turned pink. She chewed her lower lip, finding it odd to say the words, which was funny given what they had just done to each other. She still felt empty, she wanted him, _desperately_ , but she just hadn’t wrapped her mind around it enough quite yet. “Can we…you know…”

They were of the same mind in some ways. He stroked her face, nodding, kissing her again. “Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered. It was not done, she thought, before marriage. If she were to give up her maidenhead before marriage, she might not have any prospects, as some men seemed only interested in ladies who were _pure._

It wasn’t necessarily that though, Dany thought. It was just what it would mean otherwise. She wanted to make sure they were ready for it. They weren’t just caught up in the moment, without thinking. She could have cared less about saving herself for a husband, but society being what it was…she sighed. She burrowed into his neck and felt the bed shift, as he pulled the duvet over them both. Her legs still felt damp, uncomfortable a bit. She moved and got up, walking over to her washbasin and wet a cloth, cleaning herself up.

“You really are beautiful you know.”

 _Oh my._ She glanced over her shoulder, her hair loose from the braids and tumbling slightly. He hadn’t seen her really without her braids. She turned, still a bit embarrassed, and reached for a robe over her vanity table chair, but Jon shook his head. “This is so strange,” she laughed, reaching to pluck the pins from her hair.

He leaned back on his elbows, watching her, eyes dark and sultry. “I’ve never seen your hair all the way down.”

She shook her fingers through it, letting the silver curls tumble over her smooth, creamy shoulders and tendrils dance almost down to her nipples. “Really?” she whispered, twirling a lock around her finger, cocking her head. “Well now you know…it’s quite long.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You’re just tired, Jon Snow,” she teased, walking over and crawling beneath the covers. She touched at his scars, sighing at the horrible darkness of them against his marble-like body. They were so unfair. She lifted her face back to his. “I don’t know how long we have really, to be like this. Someone might come knocking.”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss her again. “Just for a few moments,” he said.

“Alright.”

It ended up being a few hours. They just lay together, dozing quietly, occasionally reaching to touch the other. Dany thought she was subconsciously checking to see if he was still there. The soft howls of Ghost from the forest finally alerted them awake. She helped Jon redress and he kissed her swiftly, leaving her room with a forlorn look at the rumpled bed. “I’ll see you later?” he asked, hopeful.

She nodded quickly. “Yes of course.” She teased, spinning in a circle, her silk robe flying around her waist like a kite in the air. “Picnic in the garden, Jon Snow, all of us!”

“Not today, it might rain.”

“Oh no it won’t.”

As if on cue, there was a soft rumble of thunder. She whipped her head to the window, glaring at the gathering dark clouds. “Ugh! How do you _know_!?”

“Ghost told me, while we were sleeping,” he laughed. He kissed her again, with a squeeze to her fingers. “Let’s sit with Aemon today. He likes that when it’s raining.”

She nodded, watching him leave, swiftly making his way down the corridor to the main staircase, before going up a level and then to the West Wing. It was so wonderful, she thought, to see him moving with the ease he did now. She glanced back at the bed, flushing at the memories. They would stay with her forever. Her hand ran over her stomach, heat rising again at the idea that Jon’s hands had been there hours before. She closed her door, before someone could walk by and see, and went over to her desk.

The papers she’d brought with her had been neglected, she’d forgotten entirely to show them to Jon. To really discuss what she found. The weirwood tree just needed love and attention. That was why he’d heard Lyanna and Rhaegar talking about how it could control his warging. He needed to connect to it too. He needed to just… _stop fighting._ To be himself, to be _Jon._

He could do it too, she thought. If he just tried. If eh stopped fighting it.

She pushed the papers aside and looked up when there was a soft knock at her door. “Yes?” she called.

It pushed open, Missandei peeking in. “Sorry to bother you so early, I heard you moving about.” She stepped inside. “Would you like me to do your braids today? I saw a new style I think you might like; I’d like to try it.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Dany turned, moving toward her vanity.

Missandei went to the dresser to collect some of the items she used, stopping hard in her tracks. “Ah…Daenerys?”

“Hmm?”

Her friend turned from where she’d picked something up from the floor, pulling it between her fingers and walking over. “Ah…what is this?”

Dany glanced at her, not paying much attention, but when she saw what Missandei held, she gulped. “Um…” _Jon’s hair ribbon._ He always held it back in a queue with a black velvet ribbon, haphazardly tied in a knot. She had just pulled it loose and thrown it aside without a care. She didn’t use black ribbon in her hair, preferring red if she decided to wear one at all.

Missandei smiled, knowingly, and pocketed it. “I’ll return it to its owner later today.”

Dany smiled, grateful for her discretion. “Thank you, Missy.”

“Hmm, I am glad. Things are changing around here.” Missy smiled, beginning to do her hair, lightly brushing it back from her face. “For the better, I’d say.”

 _Yes, I’d say so too_ , Dany thought, unable to stop smiling.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49641948936/in/dateposted-public/)

“This is…oh it is so beautiful, Lady Daenerys!”

Dany smiled proudly, gazing around the garden with her hands on her hips, as one might survey a prized horse at a show. She nodded smartly. “It is, isn’t it? I owe it all to Lady Lyanna. She started it.” _And I just brought it back to life._

Gilly nodded, eyes misty, gazing at the beautiful flowers and lightly touching the vines that tangled through an arbor Dany had uncovered propped and hidden in the corner. It was not a large garden, despite her initial thoughts, and with all the flowers and plants, with the great weirwood thriving in the center of the garden, it truly was a secret getaway. A cozy little part of the world where you could disappear for a bit.

The picnic had been a surprise, one she’d begun to pack herself, and then invited everyone. Even Davos had come, to her glee, peeking his head in around the open door, marveling at everything. “So this is where all those gardening tools and supplies have gone?” he chuckled, before misting over himself at the sight of Jon, healthy and alive, a grown man instead of the young boy he had last seen.

While they caught up, Jon delighted at seeing Davos again, Gilly and Sam and Little Sam all arrived. The little boy, nearing two years now, toddled about, kicking and playing with his ball, laughing and crawling about in the dirt, like one his age should. Dany briefly thought she saw a memory, of a small child with dark curls doing the same, running through the grass to a woman with her arms out, dark hair flying around her head when she spun him into the air, his little hands grabbing for one of the weirwood’s red leaves.

Ghost came to her side, nudging her hand. She ruffled his ears, kneeling to kiss his nose. “It is something, is it not? You did this too, you know.” He rubbed his neck against hers, turning to look over at Jon, who was smiling at her. She grinned back. It was a lovely day. She wanted to bring Aemon out here, soon. They would let him know about it, give him an opportunity to experience it too. Missy and Grey were at the swing, her friend laughing and her dark curls springing around her head as Grey pushed her lightly, the normally serious young man smiling wide at her, clearly the two of them desperately in love.

She hoped to hear of an engagement between them very soon. Or else she might have to just order Grey to marry Missandei, she thought.

“You know, you really are better, I thought you had been, but it’s different,” Sam said, sitting beside Jon on the bench, while Little Sam plucked at some grapes on the blanket in front of them.

Dany walked over, leaning over the wrought iron back. “It’s this place,” she said, resolute. As if challenging the serious, science-minded Sam to defy her logic. “It’s magical.”

Sam looked like he wanted to argue with her but decided against it. _Good. His friend is a warg, that’s not dictated by science either_ , she thought with a smirk. Jon stretched his legs out in front of him, flexing his feet at the ankles. “You do have more control, you haven’t gone in without knowing in some time, yes?” Sam asked, eager.

Jon nodded, quiet. “Aye.”

“And you can come out when you want?”

“Aye,” he repeated. He reached over and casually touched his fingers to the weirwood’s snow white trunk. He shivered. It might not have an explanation, why as a child it affected him, and why now it seemed he was able to control it, the more she tended to this place, the more the magic had a chance to flourish. It was like this with Lyanna, and he struggled with the warging then, but maybe they would never know.

She moved away from him, towards Missy and Gilly, who were walking with Little Sam by one of the dragon statues. Missy looked over at her and smiled, soft. “I suppose now is as good a time as any, to ask you this.”

“Ask me what?”

Gilly flushed, shaking her head at Missy. “It’s not our business!”

“It is obvious though; anyone can see it.”

“See what?” Dany wondered, frustrated she wasn’t in on whatever joke they seemed to be discussing. She glanced at Jon, who was surrounded by Sam, Davos, and Grey. They were teasing him about something as well, she could see how he was ducking his head, looking a bit agitated. She hoped they wouldn’t anger him; Jon could be quite foul when he got angry.

Missy grinned. “You love Jon.”

Her eyes widened, surprised; Missy knew this of course. “I…I do,” she mumbled, admitting it in front of Gilly now. It came easier, more of a fact than anything else. She smiled wider. “Yes, I do love him.”

Gilly sighed, clutching her hands in front of her heart, smiling toothily. “Oh, it’s just…so romantic. I’ve been here my whole life; he is so different now.”

“Because he’s doing what he wants, not what someone expects of him.”

“Do you think it is because Lord Rhaegar is gone?” Missy wondered.

It might not be as simple as that, Dany thought, although it definitely had something to do with it. “I think he needed to be what he is, not what Rhaegar feared he would become,” she said, speaking quietly. She didn’t think Jon would appreciate her speaking of his relationship with his father with others. She smiled, dropping her head and digging the toe of her boot into the dirt, muttering: “Now if only Rhaegar could see it.”

Sam called Gilly then, as Little Sam had stumbled and gotten dirt all down his front, crying and upset as he’d also crushed one of the rose blooms he’d been holding in his pudgy hand. It was time for them to leave, they apologized, as Little Sam needed a nap. They all trickled out then, Davos shaking Jon’s hand and saying how happy he was to see him well. Missy and Grey skipped out, hand-in-hand, likely to the stables where Dany hoped they would enjoy their evening. She gave her friend a lecherous look, wiggling her eyebrows knowingly, and was glad that Missy laughed, ducking her head and tugging on Grey’s oblivious hand.

It left them, just the two of them, and Ghost of course. She walked over to the door, closing it, locking them in the garden with just their thoughts and hearts. The sun had begun to drop, no longer visible above the trees. Everything glowed and she thought perhaps there were even little bugs that lit up around. In the event that they were out past dark still, she had packed some candles and candleholders and even draped a chandelier she’d discovered in one of the empty rooms over the weirwood’s branches. She stood atop the bench, carefully lighting the candles and then scattered a few more around here and there.

Before long, the entire garden glowed as if lit by dozens of fairies, she thought, spinning in a circle, arms outstretched and her head tilted back. She could fly, she thought. She wished she could. Wished she could mount a dragon and fly high into the sky, with the clouds and the birds and see everything from above. Her hair fell from its braided up-do with her movements, and she eventually opened her eyes, dropping them onto Jon, who was still on the bench, watching her.

She smiled, moving towards him, but he lifted his hand, pausing her. “I want to show you something,” he said, husky. She stood in place and he pressed his hand onto the arm of the bench, getting to his feet. Dany made a move to help him; his balance sometimes was not great when he got to his feet, especially since his crutches were lying on the ground. He held his hand out, stilling her again.

And with very careful steps, one by one, only briefly leaning on the weirwood’s thick trunk, Jon stepped to her, without any assistance from his crutches or canes or another’s arms. He smiled, unable to help himself, and held his arms out when he reached her, several feet away. “Ta-da,” he teased.

He might have been joking, but this was nothing to joke about. Dany almost burst into tears, sobbing into him, but she restrained herself enough. _Barely._ Tears trickled down her cheeks and she reached for him, clutching him against her. “Magic,” she gasped. It was magic, that was why he could walk again.

He shook his head, holding her tight. “No, not magic.” Jon pulled back from her and touched his forehead to hers, hand coming to cup her jaw. He smiled. “You.”

They kissed, deep and tender, and did not stop. Dany couldn’t stop if you tried to bodily remove her from his embrace, consumed with love for the man standing in front of her. She moaned against him, her fingers tugging at his cravat, loosening the knot and fumbling with the buttons at the neck of his shirt. “Jon,” she gasped, tearing away just long enough to see that his eyes had gone black, like they had that night in her bedroom. She couldn’t stop, her hips arching to him, her leg tangling around his, while he began to fight with the ties at the back of her skirt.

Thank gods she had chosen a simple blouse and skirt, easy to remove. They carefully fell onto the blankets and furs stretched in front of the weirwood. The air was warm, thick with springtime and blanketing them in its dewy comfort. She gently stroked his face, curling her fingers into the base of his neck, securing him against her as he rained kisses from her mouth across her chin and down her neck, licking at a drop of sweat that managed to escape from her nape to track over her shoulder.

She arched against him, pushing at his coat and his shirt, tugging it from his trousers, frustrated when she couldn’t get them loose, as he was moving too much over her. “Be still,” she complained.

He grunted, pulling her blouse free and loosed enough at the neck to tug it up over her head. She sat up to help him, leaving her in her day corset and thin lace chemise, which was still tucked into her skirt. “You be still,” he retorted. They laughed, arms and fingers and legs flailing about as they fought with each other’s clothing, while she tried to also divest herself of her clothes, Jon moved to take off his boots.

It took a bit of time, as between taking off an article of clothing, they had to kiss each other, or touch each other, and Dany didn’t think she could ever stop. There was such a change in the air, she thought, much like there had been each time she’d been in the garden when something just… _different_ occurred. She pressed her forehead to his, when they were both naked, trembling in each other’s arms, biting her lower lip nervously. They had spent what time they could, since that night in her bedroom, stealing away time to explore each other more.

She was no stranger to that glorious feeling of warmth and explosion her body shook with, when Jon did whatever it was, he did with his mouth and his fingers. Just as she had grown accustomed to what he wanted from her when she did the same to him. Except they just gotten _just close enough_ , before one or the other backed off from taking that final step, wanting to be 100 percent sure before they did.

Dany knew it was the time.

It was perfect, everything was as it should have been, and her heart pounded against her ribcage, straining to escape, to be with his. She held his face in her hands, pulling him back up to her, after he had spent several minutes with her breasts, warm puffs of his breath sending her skin pebbling like gooseflesh. “Please,” she murmured, focusing intently on him, conveying her need. She tightened her thighs around his hips, holding the heavy weight of him against her, and she arched slightly, rubbing him between her slick folds, in case he didn’t already get the message. He started, confused. She smiled. “I want you Jon.”

“I want you too Dany,” he whispered, moving to kiss her again.

Except, she pushed him back, shaking her head, her violet eyes deepening to pools of indigo. “No Jon, I _want_ you.” She moved closer, slicking him up again with a twist of her hips. She took his hand, from where he’d dropped it to her shoulder and thread her fingers, squeezing tight.

He cocked his head, his brow furrowing, dark eyes concerned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Here?”

It was the perfect place, she thought, nodding, eyes fluttering shut when he kissed her again. “Yes,” she sighed. “Here.” It was the only place, really, for this to occur between them. She kept his hand in hers, holding tight even when he tried to move it away. All she did was shake her head and he understood. He kissed down her belly, shifting carefully. His upper body strength from having to swing himself around on his crutches most of his life did him a lot of good now, holding himself over her so he didn’t have to move too much, which she thought might still make him uncomfortable or be difficult.

She closed her eyes, gasping and moaning, knees lifting to accommodate him when he slipped his tongue between her folds, doing whatever it was he did that brought her to such highs. _I think I might really be flying now._ She sailed in the clouds, with him this time, breaths tight and high, trying to escape her body, which was taut with unreleased tension and pleasure.

And then she came, she hit that peak, crying out with no regard for her volume, because they were the only ones here, in this world they’d carved for themselves. She took his mouth again and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, her legs squeezing against him again. “Please,” she begged. She thrusted against him and he slipped against her once more, but not as close as she wanted. “Please Jon, I’m ready.”

He moved his hand down again, strumming at the nub that she’d come to both desperately needed touched and yet also cursed, because when he touched it, sometimes that was all she needed, before she went flying over that cliff to what sometimes felt like certain death. His fingers shook as he circled it and he slipped them into her, stroking her inner walls. She felt damp on her thighs and was begging him to _please._ “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled against her shoulder, idly kissing there.

His entire body shook; she knew he needed this as much as her. “You won’t,” she murmured, stroking his back with her free hand, their others still entwined together, resting beside her head. She closed her eyes, nodding. “You could never hurt me Jon.”

He met her gaze again, nodding, and moved his hand from cupping her to his cock, positioning it. HE held his breath and she nodded, tensing when she felt him prodding at her entrance. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowing exhaling when he began to press into her. He was fighting the urge to just snap his hips into hers, his fingers tight in hers. Her mouth fell open, eyes slamming shut, a long and low moan escaping at the slow drag of him against her.

And then he pressed to the thin veil that kept him from going further, pain trickling forth through her pelvis at the tight feeling of him inside of her, the stretching of her body to accommodate him. He kissed her, their noses and foreheads pressed tight, and his fingers still moving against her, wetting her even more, making her as slick as possible so there would be no painful friction, but she knew it couldn’t be helped. “It’s alright,” she murmured, closing her eyes tighter. “Just please, go…I can’t take it Jon, I need you.”

“I love you,” he said, startling her with the admission before he captured her mouth in an intense, open-mouthed and wet kiss, their tongues and lips sliding wetly and messily, distracting her just enough from the sharp pain that breaks through her, his body forcing hers across a bit on the blanket, their hips seated against each other as he buried himself entirely within her.

She broke the kiss to cry out, not just at the pain but at the sudden feeling of being so _full._ “Oh my gods,” she gasped, eyes wide. Nothing had felt quite like this before. Not his fingers or his mouth or anything. She closed her eyes again, tears sneaking out, but Jon kiss them away, muttering apologies. She didn’t acknowledge them, but as she shifted her hips, feeling him twitch inside of her, desperate to move, she wanted him to as well. “Jon…” She met his eyes, gray shining back in the dim glow of the candles, the barest hint of the moon through the tree branches. She smiled, touching his face and squeezing his hand again. Her legs snaked around him, tighter, locking him into her. “Make me yours, all of yours.”

And if he didn’t get the message, she lifted her hips, sliding them against him, dragging back on his cock before pushing back to take him in again. He nodded quickly, teeth tugging on his lower lip, and he kissed her, their groans escaping at the same time as they began to move together.

The entire time they kept their hands together beside her head, pressing into the blankets, while her other moved to the small of his back, encouraging him with each thrust into her. His thrusts were shallow, small and slow, which she knew was to keep her from being in pain, but she could hardly feel anything any longer, and if she did, she didn’t care, because it was so deliciously _good._ She wanted more of him, the fire starting at the tips of her toes, licking its way up the rest of her. One of her heels pressed into his calf and he took his free hand to angle her, fingers branding her thigh with the move. “Dany,” he gasped, chest rapidly rising and falling with each breathy groan and grunt. “I can’t…can’t last much longer.”

“It feels so good,” she sobbed, unable to think clearly, or really savor the other feelings consuming her. The way he held her, the perfect way their bodies fit, the softness of her breasts dragging on his chest, or her belly pressed to his. She wanted more though; she was a dragon, after all.

And he was a wolf.

She begged, needing it, and eventually whatever restraint they both had on themselves snapped, with her blood pounding in her ears and the sounds of their coupling filling the din. The heat of the evening smothered them, while the fire rageD inside. They ground together, his hipbone pressing into her nub and she rubbed harder, to stimulate it more, and they lost themselves completely, as Jon thrusted so deep into her it’s like she’s splitting apart and she dug her nails into his back, probably drawing blood.

It hit her so fast she didn’t even feel it at first, until her vision went white and flames licked the sides of her sight, her wail and cries almost drowning out his, her release coming first. She clutched him so tight she thought for a moment he couldn’t breathe; but he had stilled, her cunt milking him as he came with her, the waves of her climax bringing him along. He filled her completely, the hot spill of him warming her belly and she closed her eyes, forgetting everything she’d read in that book about possibly preventing a baby, but right now she couldn’t care.

Because Jon had claimed her as his and she claimed him as hers. They were together in this, all of this. _Targaryens are drawn to each other_ , that was what Aemon had said. Dany didn’t quite understand that until now. She closed her eyes, breathing shallowly, and Jon moved, shifting against her, carefully extricating himself from her boneless limbs. She winced when he pulled out of her, her cunt sore and swollen. She lightly dropped her fingers to it, flinching. She was so greedy, she wanted more, but supposed they might have to wait a bit.

The sudden chill of the spring evening washed over her and she shivered. Jon pulled a fur over them both, their bodies sticky and wet from their lovemaking and the damp air around them. They were trying to catch their breath, when he kissed her again, finally taking his hand from hers and holding her face against him. She smiled, dopey and lovesick. “I love you,” she whispered, her hand going to cover his over her cheek. She stared into his eyes, having memorized his face long ago.

He smiled, sleepy and as lovesick as she. “I love you too,” he replied.

“I don’t ever want to leave.”

“The garden?” he whispered, maybe teasing, but maybe serious.

She shook her head, staring up at the moon through the red leaves above them. She swallowed hard; her throat dry. “The garden…you…I don’t ever want to leave any of this.” _I don’t want to go back to my life before_ , she thought. To that lonely and sad existence. She looked to him again. “This place is responsible for everything.”

Jon frowned, lips pursing. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do. It’s the reason for everything.” She sat up on her elbow, looking down at him. He rolled slightly so she was hovering over his chest. “Rhaegar hid it all away and it died away, like he died inside, more and more, it was all just wasting away. You were too Jon. You were losing control and sinking deeper and deeper into the depths. I don’t know why before your mother died you were struggling, maybe it was just because you were young and you needed to learn to control it, but whatever the case, keeping you from it made it all worse and things are changing. You are connected to this place as I am also connected.”

She took a deep breath, wanting to say more, but Jon silenced her, lightly pressing his fingertips to her mouth. He waited a moment and then traced them down to her heart, resting them there. “Like we are,” he murmured. He blinked up at her. “There’s a reason we were supposed to stay away. I think we both know why.”

 _Because we are meant to be together._ He continued. “It’s no coincidence that when you got here, things began to change. You pushed and pulled and…and it’s like things are how they were supposed to be again.”

They shared more kisses, melting into each other once more, bodies entwined. After some time, they made love again, and finally returned to the manor, exhausted and ready to sleep, but when Dany moved to leave Jon’s room, he pulled her into the bed with him again and she could only go with him, unable to stop herself, giggling and ducking beneath the covers with him.

He kissed her neck, blowing hot puffs of air, which tickled and had her straining, laughing at him. “So you read my book, huh?” he asked.

“Just a bit.”

“Anything you remember?”

Dany turned pink, thinking of one of the pages she’d read, with one of the descriptions. “Um…I think it was…” She pulled the sheets over her head and moved to the nightstand, where the book was sitting. She flicked through and found the page she was thinking of, showing him, unable to stop the flush staining her pale skin. “We don’t…don’t have to…”

Jon’s eyes darkened and he threw the book onto the stand, motioning for Ghost to leave. “Go hunt,” he ordered, the wolf rolling his eyes and getting up. He grinned, pulling her into his arms, lips pressing to hers as he mumbled. “You certainly don’t need to see this.”

She laughed, pulling the covers back over them, rolling onto her stomach as Jon began to kiss the back of her neck, moving over her, pressing against her body and snaking his hand underneath it. She gasped, new sensations and feelings consuming her, drowning her.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185802593@N06/49641948936/in/dateposted-public/)

The two new lovers were so consumed with each other they did not hear the sounds of the horses making their way up the drive that morning, or the front doors opening and closing, trunks being unloaded, Davos ordering about the footmen and Grey wrangling the horses toward the stables for tending.

Neither of them heard the exclamation from Missandei, as she entered the foyer to the racket, hurrying over to assist. “Lord Rhaegar! You’re back!”

Rhaegar pulled off his cloak, draping it over his arm, his indigo eyes scanning the foyer and lifting to the staircase. “Yes, I am. Earlier than I intended, I apologize for not sending a note. Where is Aemon?”

“In his library.”

“And Daenerys?”

Missandei stammered. “Ah…probably…probably in her room.”

“Hmm. I will change from my traveling clothes and then see to her and ah…” Rhaegar glanced back up to the stairs. He stiffened his back, moving towards them. “I will see to Lord Jon as well.”

“Yes…yes my lord.”

Rhaegar didn’t understand why Missandei seemed terrified all of a sudden, nor did he understand why all the windows were open, curtains drawn back. Or the flowers that were filling the vases along the corridor. He poked his head into Dany’s room, noting that her bed was made, so she must not be there. He paused at the west wing entrance, but refrained from seeing Jon just yet. Rhaegar moved to his room, closing the door behind him and setting his cloak on a chair by the desk. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pushing away from the single framed portrait there, not wanting to look at his beloved. He turned to walk towards the window, frowning at the strange patch of land that appeared to be tended by the entrance to the wolfs wood. Odd. He frowned and turned away, moving to unbutton his traveling coat. He glanced at the painting that hung above the hearth, his heart aching at the sight of his son, painted as a young child, before the accident, holding his white wolf pup and laughing. 

What he wouldn't give to see his son like that again. He closed his eyes and sighed. He'd see him soon. He'd speak to him about the next steps, about what he'd arranged. Jon might not like it, but it would need to be done.


	9. the dragon and the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar's return prompts Jon and Dany to drastic measures; a family reunites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may seem rushed, but it isn't. If you know the book this is based off of, 'the secret garden', Jon and Rhaegar's interaction is similar to Colin and his father. It's magical and symbolic more than anything else. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Dany was floating on clouds.

She glided down the hallway to her room, eyes vacant and her mind faraway, back beneath the blankets and sheets in Jon’s room, entwined with him. The day was positively glorious, sun shining, and there were even probably birds chirping, like it was right out of one of the fairytale books she occasionally read, to distract herself, when she first got to Dragonstone.

They would find each other later, perhaps go sit in the garden with Ghost for a bit. Dany wanted to share more of her notes and research with him about what the First Men had written about weirwoods, from their interactions and teachings from the Children of the Forest. She wanted to show him her translations and explain to him that it was in his blood, that he would always have his abilities, but it just needed to have, well… _peace._

He would have peace too, with me, she thought resolutely. She smiled to herself, sighing happily, and despite the tired fog around her, and the delightfully sore state of her body, she felt ready to chase the wind, fight it even. Just for fun. She reached to rub at the side of her neck, where Jon’s beard that left several red marks that she would need to see if Missandei could cover, maybe with a high-necked blouse. It was known among the staff by now that she and Jon had not returned from the garden until incredibly late last night, and surely Missandei knew that she had not spent the night in her room, but unlike all those other times, she had not returned to her room to undress and change into her nightclothes.

And no one had gone to see Jon to bed either, as was usual custom, to make sure he had taken all his medications and stretched out his limbs, and wasn’t curled up in his chair stuck inside of Ghost’s head. She turned the corner into her room, smiling at Missandei, who was fretting with some of her blouses, folding and unfolding them. “Good morning!” she exclaimed.

“Oh you’re here! Oh thank gods, I was so worried!”

Her eyes widened, reaching for Missandei. “Worried? About what?”

“Oh I had gone to Jon’s room to see you, but the door was shut and locked, I didn’t want to disturb…” Missandei’s dark eyes were wide, panicked. She squeezed hard on Dany’s hands, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Lord Rhaegar returned.”

Dany’s spine went straight, a chill trickling down it. “He…he has?” She wasn’t sure why Missandei was so worried. She was almost glad that her brother had finally shown himself. Now he could see that Jon would _not_ die and was in fact healing, if not fully recovered from whatever had kept him in his bed for a decade. Recovered from grief, melancholy, self-doubt and hatred. It might even encourage Rhaegar to realize that he could have a full life after grief as well. She wrinkled her nose. “When did he get back? He did not send anything saying he would be arriving.”

“This morning.”

“Oh.”

“I feared he would go to visit Jon, but when he returns from these trips he usually waits until the evening.” Missandei let go of her hands and reached to help Dany with her blouse and skirt, which were rumpled and dirty from wearing them the day before in the garden. As well as being cast aside into the grass when she had hurriedly removed them in her attempt to get to Jon. It seemed Missandei knew something was up, for she smiled knowingly. “Ah…I shall just turn these to rags, shall I?”

There was no saving them, she agreed, ducking her head and allowing a faint blush to creep up her chest. She touched her neck, peering into the looking glass on her vanity. She winced. “I suppose so.”

“How do you feel?”

 _Different._ She smiled, sinking gingerly into the soft chair in front of the vanity, turning at her waist to grip the back. “Amazing,” she whispered, dropping her chin to her folded arms. She watched Missandei remove some new garments and lay them on the bed, before moving to pick up a brush, to attend to her sure rat’s nest of a hair before she went with her to help draw a morning bath. She sighed, dreamlike in memory. “It was just…it was like we were the same person.”

“I know.”

She pinked deeper, grinning at her friend. “You do?”

Missandei smirked, reaching to remove some of the pins that stuck from Dany’s hair. “Oh yes.”

“Like what?”

“Many things,” she said vaguely, but with a knowing smile that Dany felt she understood as she felt the same with respect to her relationship with Jon. She sighed again, turning in the chair and let her friend fix her hair, both of them giggling and talking about their “men” as Missandei said. She supposed Jon was that to her. He was _hers._

It was like the only thing that had changed was that she had taken him as hers and he had taken her for his. They belonged to each other, mind, soul, and now body. It was magical. She was floating, her feet barely touching the ground, and reliving a particularly wonderful moment in the night when Jon had discovered a place that she had no idea existed…her eyes fluttered shut and she almost felt him there, the heat of his breath and the raspy drag of his tongue and…

“Daenerys!”

Her eyes sprang open, shocked back to reality with a jolt and what amounted to cold water splashed over her head. “Yes?” she exclaimed, blushing embarrassed. “Sorry?”

Missandei was smiling, but her brow furrowed in concern. “Your brother?”

 _Brother._ The cold water feeling now felt as though her entire body had encased in ice. She shivered, closing her eyes, foolish she had forgotten Rhaegar as she and Missandei had fussed about with her hair, with her bath, and dressing her for the day. “Oh gods, yes,” she mumbled, pressing her hand to her head. She needed to warn Jon. She got up from where she now sat by the fire, smoothing her hands over her high-waisted skirt. She blew out a hard breath. “Rhaegar is in his rooms, yes?”

“Most likely, but I can check.”

“Do not worry. I’ll find him.”

Missandei frowned again, whispering. “Be careful Daenerys.”

She smiled. “I will.”

Rhaegar it seemed felt no interest in finding her that morning after she had dressed for the day and while she probably might find him with Aemon, she skirted quietly around his rooms, taking care not to tread heavy on the carpets so the floor creaked, and tip-toed up to Jon’s room. She barely knocked on the door, pushing it open enough to see that he was alone, sitting in his chair, reading.

She smiled, slipping into the room and hurried to him. “Good morning,” she purred, although that morning she had already said so. In many other ways.

Jon looked up quickly, grinning. “Morning,” he mumbled, when she dropped a fast kiss to his mouth. He pulled at her arm, forcing her to stumble briefly, almost straight into his lap. He grinned at her frown. “Whoops.”

“None of that. I have news.”

“Oh?”

She nodded, fretting her hands together. “It’s Rhaegar.”

Jon rolled his eyes, setting his book down on the stand. Ghost looked up from the hearth, whining. He glanced at the wolf, reaching his hand out. They connected and Ghost took his silent command, walking over to the door and out into the hallway. He looked up, frowning. “What is it with Rhaegar?”

“He’s back.” She blurted it out, not sure how else to say it. She hurried, at Jon’s wide-eyed expression. “Missandei told me. He is going to…”

Jon’s eyes suddenly went back in his head, for only a moment, before he blinked and pushed at her hip, hissing. “Go! Quick! He’s coming!”

“Oh!” She whipped her head around, unsure what to do or where to go, before she jumped into the wardrobe. Jon forced himself to his feet and carefully moved to close the door. She felt stifled, unable to breathe, and compressed in the small space, crammed in with his coats and other things. She swallowed hard, hearing the door open and the click of Ghost’s claws on the hardwood floor.

The entire temperature of the room shifted, she could feel it, and hear the coolness in Jon’s voice. “Rhaegar.”

“I’m still not father than, am I?”

Rhaegar was sad, she heard it. More so than he normally sounded. She might have forgotten though; it had been so long. There was the normal air of melancholy around him, except if anything, he was defeated. She peeked through the crack in the wardrobe doors, watching her brother. He stood tall, but his shoulders were stooped. His silver hair lank, the black ribbon he used to keep it back from his face unraveling at the ends. He did not seem to be taking care of himself, his black coat and trousers and boots needing brushed and polished. They looked shabby.

Jon cocked his head, studying his father. He noticed it too; his gray eyes scanning Rhaegar from the top of his head to his toes. He shifted in his chair, leaning on the armrest. “You could be Father.”

“I know I have been away. I went to the Citadel and then to Dragonstone.”

“Could have sent a letter, let us know you were returning.”

“It happened rather suddenly,” Rhaegar said, quietly. He sat down in the opposite chair, his hands hanging between his knees. He closed his eyes. “I went to Winterfell, before I came here, but…I needed to be here. I spoke with Maesters, I…”

“I need to tell you something,” Jon interrupted.

Rhaegar waved his hand, dismissing him, and got to his feet again. “It does not matter, you have no say in this.” He lifted his chin, his hands going into the pockets of his coat. The chill returned to his voice, what warmth may have been there gone now. “I will speak with Samwell and Davos, I have plans for you.”

Jon gaped at him. Dany stifled the tiny sound in her throat, her heart pounding. _Plans!?_ “What plans?” he growled; his fingers tight on the armrests. Ghost stood, hair on end, at his side, tapping into his anger. He arched is dark brows. “Or am I not privy to plans regarding my life?”

“I plan to leave Dragonstone Manor,” Rhaegar announced. He glared at Jon. “You will go to Winterfell. Your uncle has rooms set up for you and Maester Luwin will tend to you. The Wolfswood near will be good for you and for Ghost. In the meantime, I will be moving Aemon to Dragonstone where it is warmer. He will enjoy it more there.”

 _And what about me?_ Dany wanted to scream, but she kept her presence hidden, her fist shoved into her mouth to keep from crying out. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes; if Jon was going to Winterfell and Aemon to the south, then that meant she would surely…

They were of one mind, for Jon shifted in the chair, brow wrinkling. “And Daenerys?” he whispered.

Rhaegar glanced down at him, frowning. He tilted his head sideways, choosing his words carefully, wondering. “I did not realize you cared about Daenerys,” he said, squinting. He frowned deeper, his pale face lining along his pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “Daenerys will go with Aemon, of course. She will be married in due time, I believe I have secured her a decent match.”

“No!”

They both shouted it at the same time, and she burst forth from the wardrobe, stunning Rhaegar, who almost fell backwards onto Jon’s bed, and Jon lurched to his feet, but the move was too much for him and still unaccustomed to not using his crutches, he stumbled, falling into her arms as she fell towards him, both of them seeking each other. He gripped her forearms tight and she moved her knee to press against his hip, holding him upright as he sought for purchase on the carpet, his feet dragging him back upright. She held him like a lifeline, glaring at her brother, horror written over her face.

He stared at them both, blinking, shocked. He got to his feet and shook his head, whispering, as horrified as her. “No…no you two…no!” Rhaegar was furious, his cheeks coloring pink and his chest heaving. He jabbed his finger at them both. “I forbid you from coming into this part of the manor!” he shouted at her.

She snorted, furious with him as well. All the animosity, the frustration, and the abject disappointment she felt for her brother bubbled to the surface, exploding forth. “ _Forbid me_?” she mocked. She shouted, hot tears tracking down her face. Words poured like lava from an erupting volcano. “You do not have the right to forbid me! You have wanted nothing to do with me from the moment I came to these horrible shores! I hated it here, I hated you!” She sobbed, clutching Jon, whose arm had gone to wrap around her waist, securing her to his side. “I found Jon, before you left, I followed you. We needed each other! You kept him locked away, just like you wanted to do with me, but you can’t lock us away Rhaegar! You can’t force us to live the life you want us to live because you’re terrified of what might happen!”

Rhaegar was shaking violently now, all the control he had kept tapped inside of him threatening to blow. His indigo eyes were almost black. “You do not know what you are doing,” he whispered.

“Yes we do,” Jon exclaimed. He laughed, holding onto her, his fingers branding into her skin. Ghost growled at his side. He reached to touch the wolf, staying focused on the present. _Please stay here, you need to stay here_ , she begged, closing her eyes, hoping the gods were listening, so they would not suddenly rip Jon from her. Rippin him from this moment would prove to Rhaegar all the things he was likely thinking. All the wrong things, how Jon shouldn’t be exerting himself, how he was frail and weak, and would surely die any second.

 _How can he still think that though?_ Jon standing beside her was not the one Rhaegar had left behind. He was not the thin, sallow-faced angry boy who believed he would die with any moment, the one she had come across that night, cursing at his father and seizing in pain. Jon was strong, healthy, and his face had color in it that had only come about because of the garden and because he was forcing himself to move.

It didn’t seem to matter. Rhaegar had his hands in his hair, shaking his head from side to side, refusing to acknowledge. “No, no, no,” he repeated, over and over. He jabbed his finger angrily at her. “You should _never_ have come here. This is all going to end up the way it _always_ ends up!”

“I never would have come either!” she sobbed. She hated him. She hated everything about him. She cried, missing her mother, missing even Viserys. “Gods Rhaegar how can you say that! Do you think I wanted to come here? Do you think I ever wanted to leave my home and come to this horrible place? Valyria is gone! Mother and Viserys and everything I ever loved and I came here to this cold, dreary, miserable shithole!”

She screamed, not caring if the entire manor heard them. They all knew the deepest and darkest of the Targaryen secrets anyways. She picked up one of Jon’s books and hurled it at Rhaegar, where it bounced off his elbow, surprising him. Jon glanced sideways, eyes widening in surprise. She couldn’t focus on either of their reactions, she was so angry.

All she saw was red and all she felt was fire.

“I am here because it was what Mother wanted and I tried to make the best of it, tried to find something good in this black deathscape and I found _Jon_!” It was Jon who saved her from drowning in herself. Jon was the one who helped her heal. Angry tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. She was surprised they didn’t burn holes in the carpet under her feet as she took another book and chucked it at her brother. “I found a home here and love and things were _good_ and then you had to _come back_!”

The pain evident in Rhaegar’s twisted expression did nothing to her. She couldn’t feel sorry for him. Her breasts heaved, lungs expanding against the entrapment of her corset, taking in everything she could to get her through the outburst. She grabbed hold of Jon’s hand again, shaking their joined fingers at him. “If I have to leave this place, if you want to send me away, you send me with Jon!”

“Dany,” Jon murmured.

Rhaegar spoke, back straight again, his face once more a cold mask. “You do not understand anything Daenerys. You may have lost Mother and Viserys, but I have lost more than you could ever imagine.” His eyes flicked to Jon when he said this, not even acknowledging the massive painting of Lyanna behind him. He chuckled, cold. It sent chills down her spine. “I will not lose anymore and I will not put you in the position to lose anymore either. I need to speak to my son.”

“You can speak to us both,” she argued.

Instead of Jon agreeing, he squeezed her hand, glancing down at her. “Dany,” he murmured. He leaned towards her. “Let me talk to him. Please.”

 _No!_ She didn’t want to leave him. “Jon,” she begged, trying to hold onto him, but he shook his head, turning her. He was shaking. It was too much for him and he fell sideways, into the chair. “Jon!”

And she sobbed, as Rhaegar screamed at her to get out, as Ghost howled and Jon’s eyes rolled back into his head, his entire body seizing and shaking, the attack uncontrolled. She felt arms around her, didn’t know to whom they belonged. She kicked and punched. The world turned black.

The last image she saw was Jon, his eyes flickering on hers, the warm gray she had come to associate with home, love, stability, laughter and warmth, before they closed off to her and she didn’t see they anymore.

It had been two weeks since she had seen Jon.

Dany didn’t know what happened to him, where Rhaegar took him. She tried to get out of her rooms, shocked Rhaegar hadn’t locked her in like he’d done to Jon for so long. She went to the west wing and found it empty. It was like Jon hadn’t existed. All his books were stacked and put away. His bed made and his clothes put away. There were no canes or crutches leaned against the wall or against chair arms. No Ghost to wander the grounds with.

She didn’t leave her room after that. She didn’t want to go to the garden, the sight of so many happy memories. Maybe there was something to burying it all away inside of you, like Rhaegar thought. It helped to cope, if you didn’t feel. Missandei tried to engage her, tried to get her to visit the kitchens, or go riding on Tessarion. Dany barely acknowledged these attempts. She spent her time staring out the window at the rain.

Her heart had gone from her.

There was no point in anything any longer.

Every meal with Rhaegar and Aemon was in silence. Aemon tried, bless him, but she said nothing. Excused herself before she even finished and went back to her rooms. She didn’t want to hear any excuse Rhaegar might have had for sending Jon away from her. For never telling her about where he’d gone. She hated him. She wished he had died in Valyria instead of their mother. Wished he’d died instead of Lyanna Stark.

A soft knock broke her angry thoughts.

“Yes?” she called, unmoving.

The door pushed open and Rhaegar stepped into her rooms. She glared at him, silent. He lifted his chin. “Are you going to continue to behave like a child?” he asked.

“Are you going to continue to behave like a monster?” she retorted.

He locked his jaw. “You do not understand anything Daenerys. I have had to deal with my son since the moment he was born. I have seen his suffering for too long.”

“And it’s all about you,” she growled. That was the problem. She got up, whisking her skirts around her, keeping her distance, because she didn’t trust herself if she got too close. She dug her nails into her palms, the short nails cutting hard into the skin. “It’s all about what _you_ are feeling. You did not even bother to discover that he has been doing so well since you left, since I came into his life! He only warged like that because it was too stressful, because you were hurting him!”

“He will die soon and you will be in pain, it is not worth it,” Rhaegar whispered.

She laughed; it was so sad. “How short sighted of you Rhaegar. Even if he dies it will have been worth it because it is better to have loved, you see? I love him! And you took him away from me!”

“No!” Rhaegar shouted.

Dany screamed back. Yes!”

He spun on his heel, refusing to say anything else, not even to answer her shout about where did he send Jon. She waited several hours, before she went to Aemon’s library, and found him quietly sitting in the window, listening to his phonograph. “Uncle,” she murmured, lightly touching his forearm to not frighten him to her presence.

He wrapped his brittle fingers around her hand. “Daenerys.”

She sat beside him, watching the rain. The music playing was sad, a haunting melody. It suited her mood, spoke to her empty heart. Perhaps Aemon felt the same as well. She remained quiet. There was no need to speak. For well over an hour she sat at the window, her hands folded in her lap and her ankles crossed under her, aimlessly gazing at the rain. It formed images on the louvered window, the rivulets of water dragging into shapes of wolves, dragons, roses, and trees.

Her mind took her to those beautiful days, on her knees in the garden, watching life bloom from the ground. Watching Jon smile for the first time and seeing his strength surge in him as everything around grew too. Those first careful steps and then several stronger ones, all on his own. She had no idea how long she dreamed, or even if perhaps she nodded off, but eventually the phonograph stopped, and she did not get up to turn it. Nor did Aemon.

In fact, Aemon leaned over from the spot on the long picture window seat and patted her knee, bringing her attention to him. He looked ahead, eyes glassy, and she squeezed his fingers. “Uncle Aemon?” she murmured. “Do you need anything?”

“I do.”

“What can I do?”

“You can fight, Daenerys.”

 _What?_ The demand startled her. She didn’t understand it. “Fight?” she questioned. Her brows furrowed, quizzical. “Sir?”

He nodded, resolute. He was as frail as ever in body, but his mind was sharp and voice firm. This was the Maester. The oldest living Targaryen. A dragon. “You can fight and you can cease your moping.”

“But…”

“No,” he interrupted. He kept his hand tight around hers. “I said it before and I will say it again, a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. There are four Targaryens remaining in this entire world, we have lost our home, our family, our dragons…we are all we have left and yet we are alone.”

She didn’t understand. “Rhaegar is somewhere and Jon is gone and…”

“Physically we may be here, but we are alone,” Aemon continued, as if he had not even heard her. He chuckled. “Rhaegar has been alone for decades now. He does not understand, he does not remember. Targaryens are drawn to each other. There is power in our blood, in our emotions, and it frightens him. We love passionately, we grieve deeply, and we fight to the death. We are dragons, Daenerys, and dragons are fire made flesh. Be a dragon. Fight.”

She sniffed. It was so easy to say that, but…she couldn’t. “Jon is gone and Rhaegar is…”

“Rhaegar is a broken man who has not learned from his mistakes. He is scared of them. He is scared of his past and he is only comfortable with misery, which he believes he must feel for all of time,” Aemon said. He smirked. “Rhaegar is a bloody fool. You are not.”

“But Jon…”

“Jon is not his father’s son, Daenerys. He is his mother’s son. You know what his mother was?”

 _A wolf._ “But he…”

“He lost control when Rhaegar challenged you both, when he sought to take everything away. It is possible to lose control, but you and I both know that Jon has recovered greatly. Because of you. It was never his accident, never Lyanna’s death. It was never out of control. He needed to find it.” He smiled again. “You opened the walls that Jon put up and that Rhaegar put up. That was all that needed to happen. Jon did the rest.”

“I don’t understand,” she huffed. It made no sense. None of this did, the way he was speaking, expecting her to what? To just grab Tessarion and go riding into the moors in search of Jon? She… _she could do that._ It was what she would have done before. Before Rhaegar burst into their lives and ruined everything with his need to control and his need to make everyone around him as sad as him.

It was what she did to Jon. Aemon must have sensed it. He patted her hand, smiling. “Ah, you see now. Daenerys this home was sad. Lonely. Cold. You came into it and breathed fire. You brought smiles to our faces, you opened the door and you showed Jon to be a man. You showed him that his life was not going to end young, dying alone in a room, unable to walk. You brought him control over his gifts. You found the solutions.”

The papers, the writings, the weirwood tree. She had discovered the ways linking the blood of the First Men to the Children of the Forest. The warging gift he had inside of him. His connection to the tree, hidden behind a closed door in a secret garden. She sniffed. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know where Jon is,” she whispered.

“Best find him then.”

“And Rhaegar?”

“Rhaegar will learn soon enough.”

 _How?_ She did not ask this, because she was already thinking. She would go to the garden tomorrow. When the sun came out, when it stopped raining, and she would seek guidance from it. Then she would take Tessaroin and she would go to Winterfell. It was the first place to look. Even if Rhaegar sent constables and the military after her, she would find Jon.

She kissed her uncle’s papery cheek, whispering. “Thank you.”

“My dear, do not thank me. Go find your Jon.” A tear trickled down his face. “And if in the process you can bring Rhaegar back to the light, well…I look forward to it. To seeing my dragons again.”

Soon, she thought, nodding. She got to her feet and hurried up to her rooms, going over to the desk where she kept her papers and her journal and some things that Jon had written, that she’d snuck from his rooms. Letters he’d written to her, in a way. He would write down things he wanted to say to her and then use them to guide his thoughts. She ran her thumb over his scrawling writing.

 _I’ll bring you back_ , she vowed.

The next day she stayed in her rooms all day, planning her escape. She wouldn’t involve Missandei, Grey, Davos, or Gilly. It was too risky. Best to just do it herself. As much as they would want to help her, she worried about Rhaegar and she didn’t want them to lose their jobs because of her and Jon. She knew Winterfell was about a day’s ride away, so having sustenance wasn’t high on her list of priorities. She was a fast rider, Tessarion was like lightning. They might get there in less time anyway.

She would leave after supper. Rhaegar could continue to ignore her, just like she ignored him. Aemon already knew what she would be doing, she did not worry about him giving her up. He likely wanted to beat Rhaegar upside the head with his cane. Dany wasn’t sure how anyone couldn’t at this rate.

Before she left though, she needed to see her garden one more time. To make a promise to Lyanna that she would bring back her son. They would be together. The garden was everything to her, just like Jon. There was no way she could depart, even for a short period of time, and not say goodbye to her flowers, her roses, her tree. Her everything.

The sun had fallen low in the sky when she made her way out. She avoided anyone, taking the shortcuts and slipping silently around corners. Rhaegar was in the front sitting room, staring out the window, an open book on his desk, but he was paying no attention to it. She wondered briefly what that was about but ignored him. He did not deserve anything from her. Least of all her curiosity. She hated him. She sniffed, leaving the house, her mother’s shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. It had always comforted her, she would need it now more than ever.

It still retained her mother’s scent, warmth, and love. All of it tightened around her, keeping her safe. It reminded her of Jon, of their first night, when she left it in his rooms and he hung it in the window, a teasing reminder to her of her nighttime excursion. Of their little secret. She smiled into her shoulder, eyes closing as she went around to the wall of the garden.

She stopped hard, heels digging into the dirt.

_The door was open._

Her fingers flew to her neck, fumbling at the chain, and she pulled out the key, blinking. _How?_ She walked slowly around to stop in front of the cracked door, watching the sunlight play along the leaves above her, dabbling on the dirt ground and off the freshly painted blue door. She lightly pushed her fingers on it and stepped in, wondering who had managed to get into her secret sanctum. “Hello?” she called, nervous.

Perhaps it was Missy. Or Grey. Or Davos.

She stared ahead, at the figure standing beside the weirwood tree, hands in pockets. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her fists covering her mouth. She sobbed, taking off running, stretching her arms to fly around Jon’s neck, grabbing hold of him tight. “Jon!”

He stood before the tree like he had always been there. Ghost emerged from one of the rose bushes, shaking off dried blue petals and leaves. He yipped and danced around in a circle, but she couldn’t focus on him, because she was too focused on Jon. He was in his normal black attire, black cravat, and his hair tied from his face. It was like he had been there this entire time, these horrible few weeks of loneliness. She inhaled deep, her nose crushed against his shoulder. It was him, the fresh leather and pine and bookish wolfish scent of him.

He held her as tight as she held him, never letting go. “Jon,” she sobbed. Fingers shaking, cupping his jaw, scratching at his beard, her lips pressing open to his mouth. “You’re here.”

“I am,” he confirmed.

Questions, so many questions. They raced in her mind, except she lost track of one before another came into her mind. She smiled, forgetting…except… “Oh my gods!” she yelped, pushing backwards, letting him go and gaping, looking him up and down. She spun around, frantic. “Where…how…how did you get here?”

Jon smirked. “I walked.”

 _Walked?_ He said it so nonchalant. He shoved his hands back into his trouser pockets. There was no cane. No crutches or wheelchair. Yes, he walked. She laughed. “Oh! How?”

“Practice.”

She moved to him again, heart filling with pride, with love. “My Jon,” she murmured, kissing him. She knew he could do it. It was always inside of him. Her hand came to his heart, where he clutched it, pressing hard so she could hear the steady thud beneath. “It’s been so long.” Her brow furrowed. “How did you get in?”

“Picked the lock.” He smirked. “I read a lot you know.”

“Oh!” She smacked his chest, laughing, crushing herself to him again.

After a moment, he finally spoke. “Let’s run away together,” he murmured to her temple. He had no idea how close he was to the truth of why she was there. They really were of the same mind.

“Where did you go?”

He leaned against the tree, both of them lowering at the same time, to fall into a pile at the base of the trunk, dying sunlight sending his pale face into warm glowing relief. She touched the corners of his eyes, staring into their gray depths, losing herself. Reassuring herself he was there. “Winterfell,” he replied. He smiled brief. “Rhaegar took me to Winterfell…the Maester there…” He lifted his face to the tree, grinning. “I told him about what you’d found. About everything. The garden, the weirwood…there’s one there too you know. In Winterfell. Bigger than even this one. I hadn’t seen it since I was a small boy. You were right Dany. It’s just me…I was never out of control because of some other thing. It was me. I had to be the one to take control, to focus, to come out from…from the darkness. The confusion.” He held her face, his palm rough on her cheek. All she could feel radiating from him was love. “I think it’s also my mother. Her spirit here and at Winterfell, where she grew up.”

“I knew it,” she laughed. She moved against him, her heart surging in her chest. It was never the accident. He was never meant to die in a bed with a twisted spine or end up in his wolf for eternity. All he had to do was figure it out himself. “It’s all you Jon.”

He shook his head, imperceptibly. Gray eyes wavered, his lips brushing hers and fingers tight around her. “Or it’s you. You made me better.”

They finally kissed, her mouth pressing hard to his, moaning softly as he gave away under her, before he took control, seizing her around her waist, dragging her into his lap, her skirts spilling out around them in a puddle of silk. “You saved me,” she murmured, hushed. She continued to stroke his face, the realization always there. Without him she wasn’t sure where she’d be. Or what she’d become. The devastation of her homeland, the destruction of her family…she was on her way to becoming an angry, sullen woman, demanding and hateful. In a way, like Rhaegar. Jon saved her.

He chuckled. “No Dany. You saved me.”

 _We saved each other._ She closed her eyes around tears, dropping her head to his chest, pulled against him, never wanting to let go of him. There was no need, not right now, not when he was back in her arms again.

They forgot themselves, forgot where they were. They were gone, in their secret garden, where time stood still, and everything was magical. She kissed him, everywhere, pulling at his clothing, and soon hers were gone, laid out beneath them in piles as they stretched out together and made love in the glowing sunset, the air warm and blanketing them in softness. They stared at the sky, at the stars above, pointing out the constellations, and trading names in Common Tongue and Valyrian. She even knew some in Dothraki.

He had a blanket, which she wrapped around herself at some point, using her mother’s shawl as a pillow beneath his head while she used his chest. They barely remembered at some point to put on at least his trousers and her chemise and skirt, too content to just stay drowsy and draped in each other.

“I love you,” she murmured over his heart, eyes closed, sighing.

He dragged his knuckles over her bare shoulder, idly kissing her brow. “I love you too.”

Dany was confused when she awoke.

The sunlight was so bright, it almost hurt her eyes. Odd, since she normally had her curtains pulled to ward off the sun. Not that there was much of it this early anyway. She blinked, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes, sitting up slightly and gazing around. She was in her chemise, which barely tucked into her skirt. Jon lay beneath her, in his trousers and his shirt loose about him as well, untucked, cravat and coat tossed somewhere with his socks and boots. Her boots were missing too. She smiled at the white weirwood, its red face smiling—or laughing—down at them. She chose to believe it was happy that morning.

Leaves crunched, rustling, and she moved to get up, Jon stirring beneath her. “We slept outside all night,” she mumbled, scratching her mess of hair. She felt achy, pleasantly so. Like she had the first night they’d made love. She saw Ghost, standing in front of them, staring straight ahead. She frowned at him. “Ghost?”

Jon moved to get up and she carefully helped him, so proud as he stood on his own, just a bit wobbly. “Harder in the morning,” he admitted. He held her hands tight, not letting go.

She was about to suggest they go, they’d have to sneak into the kitchens and up to their rooms, maybe Rhaegar hadn’t yet noticed them missing, when Ghost yipped. She glanced to him and then up, towards the open door, gasping. The warmth filling her vanished in an instant, replaced with a cold numbness in her heart.

_Rhaegar._

They both stared at him, standing dumbly in the doorway of the garden, a hand light on the stone arch and another barely touching the door. He wasn’t looking at them. His gaze was locked on the door, like he couldn’t believe it was open. She kept her hold on Jon, not letting go, and he tightened around her even further, his hand hard around hers, fusing it against his chest. They might have been invisible however, for Rhaegar had not said a word yet, his feet dragging in the dried leaves that had fallen around the entryway, and his gaze moving around the garden.

He appeared to be in a trance, eventually letting go of the wall, but still using the door for support. A hand touched one of the creeping blue rose vines from a bush right beside the door, shaking his fingers atop the petals. He turned to stare at them, saying nothing. Dany locked her jaw, about to shout, to shield Jon and tell her brother off, how she was not leaving, she was going to be with Jon, and he couldn’t stop her if he tried.

Except he remained silent. Jon was just as confused. Scared even, shivering beside her. They just watched Rhaegar, move from plant to plant, kneeling in the bed of smiling daisies and the big happy yellow flowers like suns. The roses locked him in. He just stood there, his hands cupping one of the large blooms, and his mind somewhere else entirely. Time passed differently here; it could have been days before he spoke. Or minutes. He eventually turned, whispering, although it might have been a shout to them.

“It’s another world.”

Dany blinked; that was not what she expected. She swallowed back her ire, her frustrated cries, and nodded, letting go of Jon to move in front of him, to study her brother. He was paler than normal, almost ashen. Indigo eyes wide, taking in everything, lips slightly parted. Dazed, Rhaegar turned slowly, his long black coat dragging on the ground. He didn’t notice, not even when some of the grass or leaves stuck to it, walking in front of them and to the wolf statue, cleaned of moss and standing proudly in its corner of the garden.

His hand stroked over it, palm lying flat over the side of the wolf’s neck. Dany glanced at Jon. Neither said a word. They didn’t want to ruin whatever moment Rhaegar had with the statue. Or the garden itself. This wasn’t the reaction she’d ever expected. She had never wanted him to discover the garden, but if he had, she certainly did not expect… _this._ Whatever _this_ happened to be. It wasn’t the cold ire he afforded her most of the time. Or the shaking fear he seemed to have when he’d caught her and Jon in his room.

Rhaegar eventually turned, coming to them, stopping at the tree. He gripped one of the branches jutting from the trunk, eyes dark, shimmering. “Did you do this?” he whispered, staring straight into her.

She nodded, taking Jon’s hand again, squeezing their fingers at her side . “Yes, we did.”

He laughed. She gasped; _Rhaegar laughed!_ It startled Jon too, who frowned at his father, like he had no idea who it was standing before him. Dany didn’t think she knew either. The sound from his throat choked; he’d forgotten how to laugh over the years. Except that’s what it was. He smiled, the twist in his lips foreign. He nodded hard, touching the weirwood trunk, blinking hard at tears. “This was Lyanna’s. It’s just like how it was when she was alive.” He seemed surprised at his reaction, reaching to touch gingerly at his cheek, confused by his own smile.

He glanced at them again, before he turned to Jon, reaching for him, his hand light on his son’s shoulder, before he gestured to the rose blooms near the wolf statue. “You were born there you know. Over there…she had been here for ages, praying for a healthy babe, and you came, so fast and she could hardly get to her feet. I heard her screaming, ran for it, and you came into my arms, just there. She named you Jon. Lying in a bed of blue roses.” He sniffed back tears, laughing again. “She loved this place so much. It soothed her.”

Dany closed her eyes, knowing what this meant to Jon. Stories of her mother were all she had now, it was all Jon had now too. “Why?” Jon croaked. His face twisted in confusion, Dany knew exactly what he was asking of his father.

Rhaegar did too. He hung his head, ashamed. “I wanted to protect you,” he whispered. His gaze darted to the side, to an area shaded by the thick cover of the red leaves. He didn’t break his eyes from that spot; Dany understood why. It was probably the area where he’d found his wife and son, one dead and the other dying. “I just wanted to protect you from it all…from how much it hurt. I did a terrible job because I hurt so much…I thought it was for the best, I am so sorry.”

Jon blinked and moved towards his father, his arms lifting carefully to wrap around him. Rhaegar shook silently, holding him tight. He didn’t appear to realize Jon had no crutches or other support. He closed his eyes. “I forgive you…Father.”

_Father._

Dany covered her mouth again, forcing back tears. Rhaegar pulled back, looking to her. “I was trying to do the same to you too,” he whispered, lightly pushing her hair from her face. He shook his head again, eyes still shining. “You look so much like Mother…I didn’t want to lose more. I am sorry…I just…I couldn’t…you’re a Targaryen. You were never going to let me control you and I…I am so sorry.” He glanced at Jon, reaching for him too. “You both are.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I can’t stop what is happening. I’ve always tried, but…it hasn’t worked.”

She took a deep breath, understanding more than he probably thought she did. “You can’t stop living,” she said, quiet. She glanced around the garden. It served as a symbol. Life kept going.

Rhaegar touched Jon’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You look so much like her. Every time I see you, I see her.” He frowned, whispering. “But that isn’t your fault.” He glanced at her. “And you too…like Mother.”

Dany moved, clutching her brother, for the first time since she’d come to live with him. To hold him tight, like she did with Jon, with Aemon, and like she had even with Mother and Viserys, before they both died. It startled him. He stood stiffly, arms akimbo and finally relaxed, wrapping them around her. She sniffed back tears. “You have to learn to cope with your grief, Rhaegar.” She broke away, long enough to smile sadly. “Like I have. I miss Mother. Desperately. Mother, Viserys, and Valyria, but…but they’re here with me. Forever.” She reached under her chemise collar, removing the chain with the key. She tugged it over her head, reaching and placing it in his hand, folding his fingers tight around the small iron object. She whispered, hard. “Like Lyanna is here with you.”

He clutched the key, his throat bobbing with emotion. After a moment, he nodded furiously and stuffed the key into his pocket. It could go back under the ground, buried away like he had for years. Except Dany knew he wouldn’t. The door would remain open. Lyanna’s memory would spill forth from her garden and return to the manor, so he could properly cope with his grief. He glanced at Jon, blinking hard again, mouth falling and looked him up and down, fully realizing he stood without aide of braces or crutches. “Oh gods…you’re…”

Jon smirked. “Just took some practice.” He glanced at her, smiling. “And a kick in the arse a few times.”

She chuckled. “I always knew you could do it.”

“You can…you’re…you’re walking?” Rhaegar could hardly form the words. He looked up at the tree, eyes wide. “But you…your back…all the surgeries all the…” He almost crumpled again, no doubt guilt ridden over the pain he’d put Jon through, when all he needed to do was leave the manor, was believe.

Jon gripped him now, holding up his father, strong. “It’s under control. All of it. The warging…it’s me. It’s this place. It’s the tree and…and Mother.”

Dany stood, hands in front of her, watching them. Ghost came back to her, remaining at her side, and she watched, the two of them bending their heads together. One silver and one black, holding each other for support, as Rhaegar began to make his amends for all his poor attempts and Jon took his first steps forward at forgiving him. It was for them. They both needed to grieve. She would let them. She looked around her, turning in place, to come to stare at the smiling face of the tree.

She knelt, closing her eyes, and whispered: _”Thank you.”_

_Thank you for your garden, thank you for my brother, thank you for your son._

Dany lifted her face, the sun shining warm on her skin, and she closed her eyes, as the trees rustled with the light gust of wind, the weirwood seeming to rumble beneath her knees, and Ghost’s soft head laying over her hand.

 _”You’re welcome”_ , the garden whispered back to her.

She got to her feet, grinning, and spun in a circle, arms out, and heart free, the garden's magic and Lyanna’s spirit filling her completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the Epilogue, which will be Jon POV


	10. epilogue: the whole world is a garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue: Jon thinks about what has happened since Dany arrived and speaks with his father...and mother. 
> 
> And they all lived happily ever after!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this took a long time to put up, thanks to COVID shutdown, mental health struggles, toxic job environment, and all kinds of things, but we have come to the end. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

The fire had long gone out, the curtains pulled open, and the chill of the room coupled with the brightness of the sun slicing across the bed forced Jon to shift, to blink hard, adjusting to the muddled waking of his mind and body. He moved slightly, realizing the bed was empty, the spot beside him quite cold, the indentation from a body long gone. He frowned, moving to force himself up onto his elbows, peering around the room.

“Ghost?” he called. It seemed his wolf had left him as well.

He threw back the covers, slinging his legs over the side of the bed. He had to take a deep breath, as he did every morning, still scared that one day they might give out. He stood, shaky and stiff. It was like that in the morning still, especially in the chill of an early autumn. He reached for his cane, propped against the nightstand, and leaned on it for extra support until his muscles warmed up.

He dressed, rather quickly, still wondering where everyone had gone. It seemed the manor was entirely empty. It was easier to tell these days, the doors opened to every room and curtains tied back to allow the morning light in. Years of neglect still left their mark on the shabby unpolished wooden furniture or the slightly moth-eaten carpets and couches. Except there was finally a sense that the manor had inhabitants, people who lived there and loved there.

Jon descended the stairs carefully, thinking briefly about taking a seat somewhere and disappearing into his wolf’s mind, but pushed that thought out rather as quickly as it had appeared. It wasn’t like he _needed_ to know. They were somewhere, it was just odd that there not even be a note left for him. He must have been sleeping quite well, to not feel her get up or even sense Ghost’s disappearance.

“Uncle Aemon?” he asked, poking his head into the library. _Odd, even he appears to be gone._ Books were opened all over Aemon’s desk and scattered tables, so he had to have been there.

It was not that late; Jon couldn’t imagine they had all left for the village. He limped out of the kitchens, pausing on the back steps to look up at the sun. It had rained the last couple days, just on and off drizzling, confining them to the house. The rain would come more frequently now that winter was getting closer. He didn’t mind it. He took a deep breath and left the house, wending through the gardens. He approached the forest, seeing Davos trimming hedges out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his hand up to wave, Davos calling out: “You alright there Jon? Need help?”

He shook his head, knowing Davos and the rest of them still weren’t quite used to see him walking of his own accord. “No thanks, I’ve got it.” He paused, Davos jogging over to the path. He felt his limbs warming up, the cane now almost just a formality. “Feeling better now that I am moving,” he explained.

Davos nodded, removing his work gloves. “Good to hear. They’re in Lady Daenerys’s garden.”

 _Should have known._ “I was wondering where they’d all gone,” he chuckled. The instant the sun came out and the rain stopped, it was a guarantee Daenerys would be in her garden. It had long since lost the title as “Lyanna’s garden” or even just “the garden.” It was all Dany’s, even if she insisted it belonged to everyone. It belonged to the house, to nature, to the spirits of Lyanna and all those they had lost, but everyone still referred to it as _her_ garden.

He began to limp down the path, Davos beside him, speaking in his soft Flea Bottom accent. “It is good to see you, you know. Sometimes even now, still have to pinch myself to remind me that you are real, not some ghost in the house. Hardly ever saw you since your injury, I thought even some days your father had shipped you off to a hospital or perhaps down south, and then sweet Lady Daenerys appeared.”

_And everything changed._

It all changed for the better. He had resigned himself to dying young, like his beloved mother, probably in a crumpled pile at the base of the weirwood tree, like she did. Or else never leaving Ghost’s mind, relegated to a life as a wolf. At least he would have legs. Except he would never know his father. Never know what it would be like to have his love, like he had once before. Before the accident. Before he killed Lyanna.

Until he learned he did not kill her. It was a tragic accident, nothing more and nothing less. Rhaegar thought it his fault, Jon thought it his fault, and ultimately it was just the gods who determined it was time for her to leave the world, to rejoin them in the trees and the air, where she had come from before the gods had blessed the world with her presence.

It was thanks to Dany. Without her, Jon was not sure if he would have ever been able to come out of it. To focus his mind enough to know when to leave Ghost, to open the garden so the magic of the gods could surround them all. The love of Lyanna, of Dany, of even Rhaegar.

He smiled, nodding absently at Davos’s words. “Aye, and sweet Dany appeared.”

“Breath of fresh air, that one.”

“Blown straight from Valyria,” he agreed. The gods had brought her to him. She saved him. Saved them both.

Davos patted his shoulder, clapping at it and if Jon hadn’t had the cane, he probably would have stumbled. “Do not mess it up lad, we need her round’ here. You two are young, got your whole lives ahead of you, so whatever you do…she is always right. Learned that in my marriage, twenty years before my dear love left this good world.”

He smiled, allowing it to meet his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I will Davos. I don’t plan on messing it up.”

“Never plan on these things lad, but they happen. Just be careful it don’t happen with this one.”

They arrived at the garden, the door thrown open, and never shut. The key remained upstairs, in an engraved box, with a few random items from the garden, only a memory for Dany to gaze upon from time to time. He peered in through the archway, seeing Dany and Rhaegar sitting on either side of Aemon, upon one of the stone benches to the side. They each had a hand in his, listening to him speak. His wizened face lifted to the warm sky, milky eyes almost shining their long ago lilac, and Jon wondered if Aemon was remembering when he was young, when perhaps he had once been in a garden like this.

He thought the magic of the place had not only healed him, but healed their aging uncle, who rarely visited, but when it did, it was like decades left him. Old creaking joints loosened and his wrinkles smoothed, his reedy voice strong and his feet sure. He meant to go inside quietly, to just watch them for a bit, but his cane landed on a dried twig, snapping it, like a gunshot in the quiet.

All three Targaryens lifted their faces towards him, Dany’s face lighting up. She squealed, hopping to her feet and rushed towards him, her pale purple dress flowing behind her. She had left her hair unpinned that day, silver curls streaming behind her in waves. “Jon!” she cried, arms tossed about his neck, kissing his cheek hard. “Oh you came! I did not want to wake you, you looked so peaceful, but it was so warm and sunny, I had to see the garden.”

“Do not be sorry,” he chuckled, kissing her lightly. He felt his cheeks warm a bit, still uncomfortable with the displays of affection before his father. Rhaegar only dropped his chin, in a slight acknowledgment, a tiny smile on his normally blank face. Jon allowed Dany to wrap her arm through his, gently guiding him, even though by now he did not even need the cane, but kept it gripped in his free hand just in case. He nodded to Rhaegar. “Good morning.”

“Good morning Jon.” It had been some time, but Jon still struggled with referring to Rhaegar as “Father.” It had been so many years since he used that title. It was so much easier to refer to him as “Rhaegar.” To maintain that distance. _Just in case I die that night._

Dany let go of him and reached for Aemon, bringing him to his feet, the old dragon laughing at her insistence. “Come Uncle,” she called, her voice sounding like a tinkle of bells. “I want to put you on the swing. It will be lovely.”

“Oh Daenerys! I do not think this old body can handle that,” he said, but laughed all the same.

“It will be fun; you are not old Uncle Aemon. You are aged, like a fine wine or whiskey.”

“An ancient wine!”

“All the better.”

Ghost leaped from one of the bushes where he had been hiding; Jon had sensed his presence near but figured he would show himself when he felt like it. He dropped a hand to pet his wolf, the soft fur curling around his fingertips, warm from whatever sunbeam Ghost where had been napping. The red eyes dropped closed, tongue lolling in a very un-wolflike manner. He chuckled, leaning on his cane to help him get to his knees, so he could look his wolf in the eye. They shared the same mind; he did not need to stare into the now red-slitted orbs, but he did. They were equal.

_Where did you go boy? Missed you this morning._

The wolf tossed his head back, licking his lips and making his high-pitched whine, nodding towards Dany, who was helping Aemon off the swing now, both of them laughing like children. He grinned, head dropping to Ghost’s, whispering. “Yes, I understand, she is not one to ignore easy.”

Ghost’s look might as well have said: _Or at all._

If Dany wanted it, Dany fought for it, and Jon had learned that the hard way. The best way. He got back to his feet, using Ghost for extra support, and made his way over to the family, Rhaegar was frowning at Dany, who had Aemon’s arm, the Old Dragon insisting they could make it back to the house. “Just need to rest, so much sun,” he marveled, lifting his face to the sky, grinning. “So warm.”

“If you are sure,” Rhaegar fretted.

“We will be fine. I will be back.” Dany patted Aemon’s hand. “Come Uncle, let’s get you back to the library.” She tossed her silver hair over her shoulder, beaming at him. “Jon, you stay right there. I still have not given you a proper good morning.” She winked, gemstone eyes twinkling.

He laughed, even though he felt Rhaegar cringe beside him. “I will be here.” _Like I have a choice._

That left Rhaegar and him alone. He barely glanced at his father, turning towards the vacated stone bench. “I am glad we are alone,” Rhaegar said suddenly. He fidgeted with his coat pockets, hands going in and then coming back out. He moved to help him, but Jon fended him off, not needing help to sit down on the bench. His father sat awkwardly beside him, hands still in his pockets. He stared ahead, towards the winding rose bushes against the farthest wall. Jon glanced sideways, a tiny smile pulling on Rhaegar’s lips. “Those roses have been here since we arrived at this manor. She brought some seeds from Winterfell. Planted them. I think they can survive anything.”

Jon smiled, nodding. “They managed to survive all this time.”

“Like you.” He met his father’s eyes; Rhaegar was focused on him, his silver brows wrinkled, nervous and unsure. He hesitated and then lifted his fingers, lightly touching them to Jon’s temple, his smile wavering. “Whenever I see your eyes, I see her. Gods Jon, you are so much like her. In so many ways.”

“I think she wouldn’t have been…” he trailed off, searching for the words. He struggled to find the right one. He supposed it wasn’t cowardly, but… “Scared.”

Rhaegar shook his head, almost gasping. “No Jon, you were a child. You were right to be scared. Something truly horrible happened to you and I was not there. I should have been there. I was the one who should not have been scared.” He reached for him, his hand clutching at his shoulder. “I have so much to make up to you…all those years of drowning in my grief, I was selfish and I know I have already told you how truly sorry I am and how I do not believe there is anything I can do to make it up to you, but…I…I hope this is a start…”

Jon frowned, seeing Rhaegar fumble in his pocket again. He did not think Rhaegar had to apologize—again. They were slowly getting there. They might never have a father and son relationship the way his uncle probably had with Robb and his sons. Or the way Lyanna may have even had with her father. He watched Rhaegar remove a small black box, with a silver little clasp. His hands were shaking, flicking it up and slowly lifting the lid, the hinge in the back squeaking from lack of use.

Inside the box sat a ring, among crushed velvet padding. The sunlight hit it just so, an almost blinding sapphire light beaming from within. Jon’s mouth fell, shocked, and reached out unconsciously to touch, only drawing back at the last moment. “Mother’s ring,” he breathed.

He had vague memories of Lyanna, but he remembered she always wore the sapphire ring, with engraved roses around the band. The painting in his room had her wearing it. There was a mark on it, he remembered her showing him, from where it had snagged on a horse bridle. _”That was your father’s fault”, she laughed, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders as she turned to gaze at him, sitting in the corner on the piano-forte, grinning at her. “He startled my horse, almost took my finger clear off!” Jon laughed too, hearing that, finding it uproarious how his parents argued over such a silly thing._

All his life after, he hadn’t thought of it. He assumed anything that could have been tied to Lyanna had died with her, burned or buried away, so Rhaegar need never be reminded of his love. He took the ring, Rhaegar pressing the box towards him, voice shaking with his fingers. “It is about time I give this to you. I…I never believed I would see a day where you would find someone you could love as much as I loved your mother.” A slim hand reached up, turning Jon’s chin towards him, so he could stare into his eyes, the indigo and the gray. He choked out a laugh. “I just assumed you were going to leave me too. Almost hoped it would happen, so I did not have to keep suffering. So you didn’t have to keep suffering.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I was a horrible father to you.”

He reached up, grasping his hand, shaking his head. His vision wavered slightly, heart swelling in his chest and his hands trembling. “No…you were in pain. I could have died. Could have disappeared into Ghost and then where would I be? No need of a ring.” He glanced around the garden, to the open door, the path leading around to the house.

It was almost like he could hear Dany, even this far away from where she was. Her laughter like bells, ringing in the wind. Fighting the wind because she could, because it was in her way, and nothing would stand in her way. Rhaegar smiled too, thinking the same thing, because after a moment, he whispered: “We would be nowhere without Daenerys.”

“No,” he agreed. They would be nowhere indeed. He looked at the ring in his hand. His thumb scraped over the sapphire. “You’re giving me Mother’s ring…why?”

“Because it is time, I give you my blessing, for whenever you and Dany are ready.” Rhaegar arched his brows, smirking. “I may have been…shocked in the beginning…I have not been to Valyria in some time and the customs are not necessarily the same here…it isn’t abnormal, but it is not common and…well you both are each other’s souls.” He closed his eyes, obviously pained, turning his head to the weirwood. “As I was with Lyanna.”

Jon closed the ring box, slipping it carefully into the pocket of his coat. He dropped his cane to the ground and moved to Rhaegar. “Thank you,” he whispered, his arms going around his father’s neck. He closed his eyes tight, squeezing, laughing. “Father. Thank you.”

Rhaegar held him so tight, he almost couldn’t breathe. “I love you Jon. So much. It is all I ever wanted was for you to be safe.”

“I know.”

After a moment, his father got to his feet. He looked back to the weirwood, his fingers dusting over the white bark. He took another long breath and smiled again. “I think your mother would have loved Dany.”

“Thick as thieves.” They would have been a force, Jon imagined. He remained on the bench, Rhaegar taking another moment with the tree before he left, hands in his pockets, and his head down. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind breeze by, a cool caress over his skin.

It sounded like footsteps, crunching in the leaves, and a weight seemed to drop beside him on the bench. He chuckled. “You’re quiet Dany.” He opened his eyes turned to his left, his mouth falling slightly.

The woman sitting beside him was not Dany.

This woman had deep chestnut hair, loose about her shoulders, a pale blue dress over dark gray riding trousers and boots. Her face was long and her smile wide, eyes crinkling and wavering with unshed tears. Her eyes…

_They’re like mine._

His voice cracked, throat dry, and eyes wet in realization. _It can’t be though..I must be going mad._

“Mother?”

Lyanna beamed, reaching for him at the same time he reached for her, grasping her tight, crushing her. She smelled like blue winter roses, he thought, screwing his eyes shut, almost sobbing as he held her again. It was like he was a small boy once more. She felt the same against him, smelled the same, and he tried to memorize every bit of her, never wanting to let her go. “Oh my sweet boy,” she whispered. She pulled back, hand cupping his face, the other tangled in his curls. Tears tracked down her face; _my face_. “You have grown so much.”

Jon wasn’t sure what was happening; perhaps he had died. Maybe he was still dreaming, asleep in bed and he would wake up and this would all have been from a fever. He felt panicked, gripping her, whipping his head around, trying to focus on the garden. Ghost lay at his feet, dozing away, and he struggled, scared. “This isn’t real is it? Is any of it real? Dany? Father?”

“Shh,” she breathed, stroking his face, comforting. “Yes darling, it is real. Daenerys is real. Your father is real too. Your legs are real and Ghost is real and everything that has happened is real.”

“But you…you’re…”

“Consider me a memory, preserved in the garden for all time and here…” Lyanna folded her fingers into a fist, pressing against his chest. Her lips pulled over her teeth again, grinning. “I am always here Jon. Forever.”

“But I don’t understand…”

She shrugged, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut, transported to his childhood, lying in bed after a particularly painful tug into Ghost’s mind, frightened, confused. Lyanna sitting with him until he fell back asleep, singing Northern lullabies and brushing kisses to his head. “I am here to tell you that you will be the way it should be, that everything from here on out will be absolutely fine, the way it is supposed to be.” She grinned. “Do not be scared of the future. You always have been. Daenerys has shown you how to grow and heal. Let her in completely.”

The ring burned in his pocket. He nodded, understanding. His fingers slipped from hers, down to the cool slab of stone beneath him. “Are you leaving?” he whimpered, watching her stand, her dress floating around her. He swallowed hard. “Where are you going?”

“I’m always here,” Lyanna reminded him, her voice whispering, far away. She smiled again, lifting her fingers in a wave, silently fading into the wind.

“Jon!”

Jon jumped, looking up to the archway, Dany skipping into the garden. He blinked a few times, but Lyanna had faded. He struggled to his feet, Dany rushing to help him. “I am fine,” he assured her, but her scowl told him she didn’t believe him. He kissed her head, chuckling. “I just…thought I saw something.”

A knowing look dawned in her eyes. “Oh yes, I understand.” Dany took his hands, carefully guiding him towards the trunk of the tree. They sank down to the soft grass around the roots, and he leaned back into the groove that fit his back perfectly, and she folded against him, equally perfect fit. He lifted his face up to the red leaves, while she watched him. Another quiet moment passed, her whisper caressing him, his eyes closing at the softness. “You saw her. She’s here you know. In the garden.”

He nodded. “I did.”

“Rhaegar seemed happy when he returned to the house.”

The ring burned hot in his pocket again, reminding him. He smiled. “Yes, I think he is looking forward to the future.”

“Well that’s good.” Her head dropped to his heart, fingers dancing around his opposite shoulder. She closed her eyes and he hugged her close, listening to her even breathing, the warmth of the sun almost a drug, lulling him into a trance.

The garden was magical.

Things happened there that couldn’t happen anywhere. It brought Dany to him. It brought him back. It brought back Rhaegar and it made Aemon young again and it returned his mother to life. He gazed up to the tree once more, remembering Lyanna’s grin and her laugh. He felt her, around them all, and the change and renewal, the recovery that had happened already, whether it be him walking again or Rhaegar laughing or calling the man ‘Father’ again.

He gripped Dany, eyes fluttering shut, inhaling her lavender and lemon scent, and the hope she had brought to him. The love she’d shown him. “Dany,” he murmured, his chin dropping to her head. Ghost came over, sidling down to sit in front of them, watching and waiting.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

She chuckled, patting his knee. “I love you too.”

“I have something to ask you.”

Dany lifted her face, wind tousling her silver locks, and he smiled.

**the end.**


End file.
